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O  13 


THE  LIBRARY  OF  THE 
UNIVERSITY  OF 
NORTH  CAROLINA 
AT  CHAPEL  HILL 


ENDOWED  BY  THE 
DIALECTIC  AND  PHILANTHROPIC 
SOCIETIES 


PS1949 

H8 
C47 
1885 


This  book  is  due  at  the  WALTER  R.  DAVIS  LIBRARY  on 
the  last  date  stamped  under  "Date  Due."  If  not  on  hold  it 
may  be  renewed  by  bringing  it  to  the  library. 


■ 


DATE 
DUE 


RET. 


DATE 
DUE 


RET. 


Form  No.  513, 
Rev.  1184 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2013 


http://archive.org/details/christmasstoriesOOholm 


POPULAR  NOVELS. 

BY 

MBS.  MABY  J.  HOLMES. 


Tempest  and  Sunshine. 
English  Orphans. 
Homestead  on  Hillside. 
'Lena  Rivers. 
Meadow  Brook. 
Dora  Deane. 
Cousin  Maude. 
Marian  Grey. 
Edith  Lyle. 
Daisy  Thornton. 
Chateau  d'Or. 

QUEENIE  HETHERTON(iVe^). 


Darkness  and  Daylight. 

Hugh  Worthington. 

Cameron  Pride. 

Rose  Mather. 

Ethelyn's  Mistake. 

Milbank. 

Edna  Browning. 

West  Lawn. 

Mildred. 

Forrest  House. 

Madeline. 

Christmas  Stories. 


**  Mrs.  Holmes  is  a  peculiarly  pleasant  and  fascinating 
writer.   Her  books  are  always  entertaining,  and  she 
has  the  rare  faculty  of  enlisting  the  sympathy 
and  affections  of  her  readers,  and  of  hold- 
ing their  attention  to  her  pages  with 
deep  and  absorbing  interest." 


All  published  uniform  with  this  volume.   Price  $1.50 
each.  Sold  everywhere,  and  sent  free 
by  mail  on  receipt  of  price, 

BY 

G.  W.  CARLETON  &  Co.,  Publishers, 
New  York. 


CH  RISTMAS 
STORIES. 

BY 

MRS.  MARY  J.  HOLMES, 


AUTHOR  OF 


G.  IV.  Carleton  &  Co.,  Publishers. 

LONDON  :    S.  LOW,  SON  &  CO. 
MDCCCLXXXV. 


COPYRIGHT,  I884, 

By  DANIEL  HOLMES, 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED. 


Stereotyped  by 
Samuel  Stoddbr, 
42  Dey  Stebet,  N.  Y. 


TO 

MISS    MARY    W.  JEWETT, 

(of  Clarkson,  N.  Y.) 

WHO  HAS  BEEN  SO  LONG  IDENTIFIED 
WITH  THE 

PARISH  OF  ST.  LUKE'S, 

AND  WHO  IS 

ALMOST  AS  MUCH   A  PART  OF    THE  CHRISTMAS 
FESTIVAL   AS  THE  CHRISTMAS  TREE  ITSELF, 

I  DEDICATE  THESE  STORIES, 

SOME  OF  WHICH  HAVE  IN  THEM  MORE  OF 
FACT  THAN  OF  FICTION. 


579300 


CONTENTS. 


Page 

I.    Alice  and  Adelaide  9 

II.    Red-Bird.  121 

III.  Ruth  and  Rena  172 

IV.  Benny's  Christmas.       ....  207 
V.    The  Christmas  Font  236 

VI.  Adam  Floyd.  .       .       .       .  .271 

VII.  John  Logan   .  325 


VIII.    The  Passion-Play  at  Oberammergau.  342 


ALICE  AND  ADELAIDE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

CHRISTMAS  EVE. 

T  was  Christmas  eve,  and  the  parlors  of 
No.  46  Shelby  Street  were  ablaze  with 
light ;  rare  flowers,  in  vases  rarer  still, 
filled  the  rooms  with  a  sweet  perfume, 
bringing  back,  as  it  were,  the  summer  glory  which 
had  faded  in  the  autumn  light,  and  died  in  the  chill 
December's  breath.  Costly  pictures  adorned  the 
walls  ;  carpets,  which  seemed  to  the  eye  like  a 
mossy  bed  inlaid  with  roses,  covered  the  floors, 
while  over  all,  the  gas-light  fell,  making  a  scene  of 
brilliant  beauty  such  as  was  seldom  witnessed  in 

the  quiet  city  of  ,  where  our  story  opens. 

It  was  the  night  of  Alice  Warren's  first  presenta- 
tion to  society,  as  a  young  lady,  and  in  her  luxurious 
dressing-room  she  stood  before  her  mirror,  bending 


10 


CHRISTMAS  EVE. 


her  graceful  head,  while  her  mother  placed  among 
her  flowing  curls  a  golden  arrow,  and  then  pro- 
nounced the  toilet  complete.  Alice  Warren  was 
very  beautiful  with  her  fair  young  face,  her  waving 
hair,  and  lustrous  eyes  of  blue,  which  shone  with 
more  than  their  wonted  brightness,  as,  smoothing 
down  the  folds  of  her  dress,  she  glanced  again  at 
the  mirror  opposite,  and  then  turned  toward  her 
mother  just  as  a  movement  in  the  hall  without  at- 
tracted the  attention  of  both.  It  was  a  slow,  uncer- 
tain step,  and  darting  forward,  Alice  cried : 

"  It  is  father — come  to  see  how  I  look  on  my 
eighteenth  birthnight  !" 

"  Not  to  see  you,  my  child,"  the  father  answered  ; 
and  in  the  tones  of  his  voice  there  was  a  note  of  sor- 
row, as  if  the  struggle  of  nineteen  long  years  were 
not  yet  fully  over. 

To  Hugo  Warren  the  world  was  one  dark,  dreary 
night,  and  the  gold  so  many  coveted  would  have 
been  freely  given,  could  he  but  once  have  looked 
upon  the  face  of  his  only  child,  who,  bounding  to 
his  side,  parted  the  white  hair  from  his  forehead, 
and  laying  his  hand  upon  her  head,  asked  him  "  to 
feel  if  she  were  not  beautiful." 

Very  tenderly  and  caressingly  the  father's  hand 
moved  over  the  shining  hair,  the  glowing  cheek, 


CHRISTMAS  EVE. 


11 


and  rounded  arms  of  the  graceful  little  figure  which 
stood  before  him,  then  dashing  a  tear  away,  the 
blind  man  said  : 

"  My  Alice  must  be  beautiful  if  she  is,  as  they  tell 
me,  like  her  mother,"  and  the  sightless  eyes  turned 
instinctively  toward  the  mother,  who,  coming  to  his 
side,  replied  : 

"  Alice  is  like  me  as  I  was  when  you  last  saw  my 
face — but  I  have  changed  since  then — there  are  lines 
of  silver  in  my  hair,  and  lines  of  time  upon  my 
face." 

The  blind  man  shook  his  head.  The  picture  of 
the  fond  girl-wife,  who,  in  his  hour  of  bitter  agony 
had  whispered  in  his  ear,  <k  I  will  be  sunlight, 
moonlight,  starlight — everything  to  you,  my  hus- 
band," had  never  changed  to  him — for  faithfully  and 
well  that  promise  had  been  kept,  and  it  was  better 
perhaps,  that  he  could  not  see  the  shadows  on  her 
face — shadows  which  foretold  a  darker  hour  than 
any  he  had  ever  known — an  hour  when  the  sunlight 
of  her  love  would  set  forever.  But  no  such  fore- 
bodings were  around  him  now.  He  held  his  wife 
and  daughter  both  in  his  arms,  and  holding  them 
thus,  forgot  for  a  moment  that  he  was  blind. 

"  Did  you  invite  Adelaide  ?"  Alice  asked  at  last ; 
and  Mr.  Warren  replied  : 


12 


CHRISTMAS  EVE. 


"  Yes,  but  it  is  doubtful  whether  she  will  come. 
She  is  very  proud,  her  father  says,  and  does  not  wish 
to  put  herself  in  a  position  to  be  slighted. " 

"  Oh,  father  !"  Alice  cried,  "  Adelaide  Hunting- 
ton does  not  know  me.  I  could  not  slight  her  be- 
cause she  is  poor,  and  if  she  comes  I  will  treat  her 
like  a  royal  princess,"  and  Alice's  face  flushed  with 
pleasure  as  she  thought  how  attentive  she  would  be 
to  the  daughter  of  her  father's  "confidential  clerk 
and  authorized  agent." 

Meanwhile,  in  a  distant  part  of  the  city,  in  a 
dwelling  far  more  humble  than  that  of  Hugo  Warren, 
another  family  group  was  assembled,  father,  mother, 
daughter — all,  save  old  Aunt  Peggy,  who,  thankful 
for  a  home  which  saved  her  from  the  almshouse, 
performed  willingly  a  menial's  part,  bearing  pa- 
tiently the  whims  of  the  mother,  and  the  caprices 
of  the  daughter,  the  latter  of  whom  proved  a  most  ty- 
rannical and  exacting  mistress.  Tall,  dignified,  and 
rather  aristocratic  in  her  bearing,  Adelaide  Hunt- 
ington was  called  handsome  by  many,  and  admired 
by  those  who  failed  to  see  the  treachery  hidden  in  her 
large,  dark  eyes,  or  the  constant  effort  she  made  to 
seem  what  she  was  not.  To  be  noticed  by  those 
whose  position  in  life  was  far  above  her  own,  was 
her  aim,  and  when  the  envied  Alice  Warren  ex- 


CHRISTMAS  EVEt 


13 


tended  to  her  family  an  invitation  to  be  present  at 
her  birthday  party,  her  delight  was  unbounded. 

She  would  go,  of  course,  she  said,  "  and  her 
father  would  go  with  her,  and  she  must  have  a  new 
dress,  too,  even  if  it  took  every  cent  they  had." 

The  dress  was  purchased,  and  though  it  was  only 
a  simple  white  muslin,  it  well  became  the  queenly 
form  of  the  haughty  Adelaide,  who,  when  her  toi- 
let was  completed,  asked  her  father  if  "  he  did  not 
think  she  would  overshadow  the  diminutive  Alice  ?" 

"  I  don't  see  why  there  should  be  this  difference 
between  us,"  she  continued,  as  her  father  made  no 
answer.  "  Here  I  must  be  poor  all  my  life,  while 
she  will  be  rich,  unless  Mr.  Warren  chances  to 
fail  " 

"  Which  he  will  do  before  three  days  are  passed," 
dropped  involuntarily  from  the  lips  of  Mr.  Hunt- 
ington. 

Then  with  a  wild,  startled  look  he  grasped  his 
daughter's  arm,  exclaiming  : 

"  Forget  what  I  just  said — breathe  not  a  word  of 
it  to  any  one,  for  Heaven  knows  I  would  help  it  if  I 
could.    But  it  is  too  late — too  late." 

It  was  in  vain  that  Adelaide  and  her  mother 
sought  an  explanation  of  these  strange  words.  Mr. 
Huntington  would  give  none,  and  in  unbroken  si- 


14 


CHRISTMAS  EVE. 


lence  he  accompanied  his  daughter  to  the  house  o/ 
Mr.  Warren. 

Very  cordially  Alice  welcomed  the  young  girl 
striving  in  various  ways  to  relieve  her  from  the  em- 
barrassment she  would  naturally  feel  at  finding  her- 
self among  so  many  strangers.  And  Adelaide  was 
ill  at  ease,  for  the  spirit  of  jealous  envy  in  her  heart 
whispered  to  her  of  slight  and  insult  where  none 
were  intended  ;  whispered,  too,  that  her  muslin  dress 
which,  at  home  with  her  mother  and  Aunt  Peggy  to 
admire,  had  been  so  beautiful,  was  nothing,  com- 
pared with  the  soft,  flowing  robes  of  Alice  Warren, 
whose  polite  attentions  she  construed  into  a  kind 
of  patronizing  pity  exceedingly  annoying  to  one  of 
her  proud  nature.  Then,  as  she  remembered  her 
father's  words,  she  thought,  "  We  may  be  equals  yet. 
I  wonder  what  he  meant  ?  I  mean  to  ask  him 
again,"  and  passing  through  the  crowded  apart- 
ments she  came  to  the  little  ante-room,  where  all 
the  evening  her  father  had  been  sitting — a  hard, 
dark  look  upon  his  face,  and  his  eyes  bent  on  the 
floor,  as  if  for  him  that  festive  scene  possessed  no 
interest. 

"  Father,"  she  said,  but  he  made  her  no  reply  ; 
he  did  not  even  know  that  she  was  standing  at 
his  side. 


CHRISTMAS  EVE, 


15 


Far  back  through  the  "past  "  his  thoughts  were 
straying,  to  the  Christmas  Eve  when  penniless, 
friendless  and  alone  he  had  come  to  the  city,  ask* 
ing  employment  from  one  whose  hair  was  not 
as  white  then  as  it  was  now,  and  whose  eyes  were 
not  quenched  in  darkness,  but  looked  kindly  dovn 
upon  him,  as  the  wealthy  merchant  said  : 

"  I  will  give  you  work  as  long  as  you  do  well." 

Hugo  Warren  was  older  than  William  Hunting- 
ton, and  his  station  in  life  had  always  been  different, 
but  over  the  mountain  side  the  same  Sunday  bell 
had  once  called  them  both  to  the  house  of  God — 
the  same  tall  tree  on  the  river  bank  bore  on  its  bark 
their  names — the  same  blue  sky  had  bent  above 
their  childhood's  home,  and  for  this  reason  he  had 
given  the  poor  young  man  a  helping  hand,  aiding 
him  step  by  step,  until  now,  he  was  the  confidential 
clerk — the  one  trusted  above  all  others — for  when 
the  blindness  first  came  upon  him  the  helpless  man 
had  put  his  hand  on  William's  head,  saying,  as  he 
did  so  : 

"  I  trust  you,  with  my  all,  and  as  you  hope  for 
Heaven,  do  not  be  false  to  the  trust." 

How  those  words,  spoken  years  before,  rang  in 
William  Huntington's  ears,  as  he  sat  thinking  of 
the  past,  until  the  great  drops  of  perspiration  gath- 


16 


CHRISTMAS  EVE. 


ered  thickly  around  his  lips  and  dropped  upon  the 
floor.  He  had  betrayed  his  trust — nay,  more,  he 
had  ruined  the  man  who  had  been  so  kind  to  him, 
and  before  three  days  were  passed  his  sin  would  find 
him  out.  Heavy  bank  notes  must  be  paid,  and 
there  was  nothing  with  which  to  pay  them.  The 
gambling  table  had  been  his  ruin.  Gradually  he 
had  gone  down,  meaning  always  to  replace  what  he 
had  taken,  and  oftentimes  doing  so  ;  but  fortune 
had  deserted  him  at  last,  and  rather  than  meet  the 
glance  of  those  sightless  eyes,  when  the  truth 
should  be  known,  he  had  resolved  to  go  away.  The 
next  day  would  be  a  holiday,  and  before  the  Christ- 
mas sun  set,  he  would  be  an  outcast — a  wanderer  on 
the  earth.  Of  all  this  he  was  thinking  when  Ade- 
laide came  to  his  side. 

The  sound  of  her  voice  aroused  him  at  last,  and 
starting  up,  he  exclaimed  : 

"It  is  time  we  were  at  home.  The  atmosphere 
of  these  rooms  is  stifling.  Get  your  things  at  once." 

Rather  unwillingly  Adelaide  obeyed,  and  ten 
minutes  later  she  was  saying  good-night  to  Alice 
and  her  mother,  both  of  whom  expressed  their  sur- 
prise that  she  should  go  so  soon,  as  did  Mr.  Warren 
also. 

"  I  meant  to  have  talked  with  you  more,"  he 


CHRISTMAS  EVE. 


17 


said,  as  he  stood  in  the  hall  with  Mr.  Huntington, 
who,  grasping  his  hand,  looked  earnestly  into  the 
face  which  for  all  time  to  come  would  haunt  him  as 
the  face  of  one  whom  he  had  greatly  wronged. 

A  few  hours  later,  and  all  was  still  in  the  house 
where  mirth  and  revelry  had  so  lately  reigned. 
Flushed  with  excitement  and  the  flattery  her  youth- 
ful beauty  had  called  forth,  Alice  Warren  had 
sought  her  pillow,  and  in  the  world  of  dreamland 
was  living  over  again  the  incidents  of  the  evening. 
The  blind  man,  too,  was  sleeping,  and  in  his  dreams 
he  saw  again  the  forms  of  those  he  loved,  but  he  did 
not  see  the  cloud  hovering  near,  nor  the  crouching 
figure  which,  across  the  way,  was  looking  toward 
his  window  and  bidding  him  farewell. 

Mr.  Huntington  had  accompanied  Adelaide  to 
his  door,  and  then,  making  some  trivial  excuse,  had 
left  her,  and  gone  from  his  home  forever,  leaving  his 
wife  to  wratch  and  wait  for  him  as  she  had  often  done 
before.  Slowly  the  December  night  waned,  and 
just  as  the  morning  was  breaking — the  morn  of  the 
bright  Christmas  day — a  train  sped  on  its  way  to 
the  westward,  bearing  among  its  passengers  one 
who  fled  from  justice,  leaving  to  his  wife  and 
daughter  grief  and  shame,  and  to  the  blind  man 
darkness,  ruin,  and  death. 


18 


HOUSE  OF  MOURNING. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  HOUSE  OF  MOURNING. 

|HE  third  day  came  and  passed,  and  as  the 
\  twilight  shadows  fell  upon  the  city,  Alice 
and  her  mother  pushed  back  the  heavy 
curtain  which  shaded  the  window  of  their 
pleasant  sitting-room,  and  looked  anxiously  down 
the  street  for  one  who  seldom  tarried  long.  An 
hour  went  by,  and  another  still,  and  then  he  came, 
but  far  more  helpless  than  when  he  left  them  in  the 
morning.  The  blind  eyes  were  red  with  tears — the 
stately  form  was  bent  with  grief — the  strong  man 
was  crushed  with  the  blow  which  had  fallen  so 
suddenly  upon  him.  He  was  ruined — hopelessly, 
irretrievably  ruined,  and  in  all  the  world  there  was 
nothing  he  could  call  his,  save  the  loved  ones  who 
soothed  him  now,  as  one  had  done  before,  when  a 
mighty  sorrow  overshadowed  him. 

As  well  as  he  could  he  told  them  of  the  fraud 
which  for  many  years  had  been  imposed  upon  him 


HOUSE  OF  MOURNING. 


19 


and  how  he  had  trusted  and  been  betrayed  by- 
one  whom  he  would  not  suffer  the  officers  to 
follow. 

"It  will  do  no  good,"  he  said  "to  have  him 
brought  back  to  a  felon's  cell,  and  I  will  save  the 
wife  and  daughter  from  more  disgrace,"  and  so 
William  Huntington  was  suffered  to  go  at  large, 
while  in  the  home  he  had  desolated  there  was 
sorrow  and  mourning  and  bitter  tears  shed  ;  the 
blind  man  groping  often  through  the  familiar 
rooms  which  would  soon  be  his  no  longer  ;  and  the 
daughter  stifling  her  own  grief  to  soothe  her  father's 
sorrow,  and  minister  to  her  mother's  wants. 

As  has  before  been  hinted,  Mrs.  Warren  was  far 
from  being  strong,  and  the  news  of  the  failure  burst 
upon  her  with  an  overwhelming  power,  prostrating 
her  at  once,  so  that  before  two  weeks  were  gone 
her  husband  forgot  everything,  save  the  prayer 
that  the  wife  of  his  bosom,  the  light  of  his  eyes,  the 
mother  of  his  child,  might  live. 

But  she  who  had  been  reared  in  the  lap  of  lux- 
ury, was  never  to  know  the  pinching  wants  of  pov- 
erty— never  to  know  what  it  was  to  be  hungry,  and 
cold,  and  poor.  All  this  was  reserved  for  the  gen- 
tle Alice,  who,  younger  and  stronger,  too,  could 
bear  the  trial  better.    And  so,  as  day  after  day  went 


20 


HOUSE  OF  MOURNING. 


by,  the  blind  man  felt  what  he  could  not  see — felt 
the  death  shadows  come  creeping  on — felt  how  the 
pallor  was  deepening  on  his  wife's  cheek — knew  that 
she  was  going  from  him  fast — knew,  alas,  that  she 
must  die,  and  one  bright,  beautiful  morning,  when 
the  thoughtless  passers-by,  pointing  to  the  house, 
said,  one  to  another,  "  He  has  lost  everything,"  he, 
from  the  depths  of  his  aching  heart,  unconsciously 
made  answer,  "  Lost  everything — lost  everything  I" 
while  Alice,  bowed  her  head  in  anguish,  half 
wishing  she,  too,  were  blind,  so  she  could  not 
see  the  still,  white  face  which  lay  upon  the  pil- 
low. 

Suddenly  the  deep  stillness  of  the  room  was  bro- 
ken by  the  sound  of  footsteps  in  the  hall  below, 
and,  lifting  up  her  head,  Alice  said,  "  Who  is  it, 
father  ?"  but  Mr.  Warren  did  not  answer.  He  knew 
who  it  was  and  why  they  had  come,  and  going  out 
to  meet  them,  he  stood  upon  the  stairs,  tall  and 
erect,  like  some  giant  oak  which  the  lightning 
stroke  had  smitten,  but  not  destroyed. 

"  I  know  your  errand,"  he  said  ;  "  I  expected 
you,  but  come  with  me  and  then  surely  you  will 
leave  me  alone  a  little  longer/'  and  turning,  he  led 
the  way,  followed  by  the  men,  who  never  forgot 
that  picture  of  the  pale,  dead  wife,  the  frightened, 


HOUSE  OF  MOURFWG. 


|3 


weeping  child,  and  the  blind  man  standing  by  with 
outstretched  arm  as  if  to  shield  them  from  harm. 

The  sheriff  was  a  man  of  kindly  feelings,  and 
lifting  his  hat  reverentially,  he  said  : 

"  We  did  not  know  of  this,  or  we  would  not 
have  come,"  and  motioning  to  his  companion,  he 
left  the  room,  walking  with  subdued  footsteps  down 
the  stairs,  and  out  into  the  open  air  ;  and  when  the 
sun  went  down  not  an  article  had  been  disturbed  in 
Hugo  Warren's  home,  for  sheriff,  creditors,  lawyers 
— all  stood  back  in  awe  of  the  mighty  potentate  who 
had  entered  before  them,  and  levied  upon  its  choic- 
est treasure — the  white-haired  blind  man's  wife. 


22 


THE   BROWN  HOUSE. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE   BROWN  HOUSE   IN  THE  HOLLOW. 

"~ EARLY  a  year  has  passed  by  since  we  left 
the  blind  man  weeping  over  his  unburied 
dead,  and  our  story  leads  us  now  to  the 
handsome  rural  town  of  Oakland,  which 
is  nestled  among  the  New  England  hills,  and  owes 
much  of  its  prosperity  and  rapid  growth  to  the  un- 
tiring energy  of  its  wealthiest  citizen — its  one  "  aris- 
tocrat/'as  the  villagers  persisted  in  calling  Richard 
Howland,  the  gentleman  from  Boston,  who  came  to 
Oakland  a  few  years  ago,  giving  to  business  a  new 
impetus,  and  infusing  new  life  into  its  quiet,  matter- 
of-fact  people,  who  respected  him  as  few  men  have 
ever  been  respected,  and  looked  upon  him  as  the 
founder  cf  their  good  fortune.  He  it  was  who  built 
the  factory,  bought  the  mills  and  owned  the  largest 
store  and  shoe-shop  in  the  town,  furnishing  em- 
ployment to  hundreds  of  the  poor,  many  of  whom 
had  moved  into  the  village,  and  rented  of  him  the 


THE   BROWN  HOUSE. 


23 


comfortab  .e  tenements  which  he  had  erected  for  that 
purpose. 

Richard  Howland's  home  was  very  beautiful, 
overlooking,  as  it  did,  the  town  and  the  surrounding 
country,  and  the  passers-by  often  stopped  to  admire 
its  winding  walks,  its  fountains,  its  grassy  plats, 
graceful  evergreens,  and  wealth  of  flowers,  the  latter 
of  which  were  the  especial  pride  of  the  stately  Miss 
Elinor,  the  maiden  sister,  who  was  mistress  of  the 
house,  for  Richard  Howland  had  no  wife,  and  on 
the  night  when  we  first  introduce  him  to  our  read- 
ers, he  was  seated  in  his  pleasant  sitting-room,  with 
his  sister  at  his  side,  and  every  possible  comfort  and 
luxury  around  him.  The  chill  December  wind 
which  howled  among  the  naked  branches  of  the  ma- 
ples, or  sighed  through  the  drooping  cedar  boughs, 
could  not  find  entrance  there.  The  blinds  were 
closely  shut — the  heavy  curtains  swept  the  floor — the 
fire  burned  brightly  in  the  grate,  casting  fantastic 
shadows  on  the  wall,  and  with  his  favorite  paper  in 
his  hand;  he  almost  forgot  that  in  the  world  without 
there  were  such  evils  as  poverty  or  pain.  Neither 
did  he  see  the  fragile  form  toiling  through  the  dark- 
ness up  the  street,  and  pausing  at  his  gate.  But  he 
heard  the  ringing  of  the  door-bell,  and  his  ear  caught 
the  sound  of  some  one  in  the  hall,  asking  to  see  him. 


24 


THE   BROWN  HOUSE. 


"I  wish  I  could  be  alone  for  one  evening,"  he 
said,  and  with  a  slight  frown  of  impatience  upon 
his  brow,  he  awaited  the  approach  of  his  visitor. 

It  was  a  delicate  young  girl,  and  her  dress  of 
black  showed  that  sorrow  had  thus  early  come  to 
her. 

"  Are  you  Mr.  Howland  ?"  she  asked,  and  her 
eyes  of  blue  timidly  sought  the  face  of  the  young 
man,  who  involuntarily  arose  and  offered  her  a 
seat. 

Her  errand  was  soon  told.  She  had  come  to  rent 
his  cheapest  tenement — the  brown  house  in  the  hol- 
low, which  she  had  heard  was  vacant,  and  she  wished 
him  to  furnish  her  with  work — she  could  make 
both  shirts  and  vests  tolerably  well,  and  she  would 
try  hard  to  pay  the  rent  ! 

The  stranger  paused,  and  Miss  Elinor,  who  had 
been  watching  her  with  mingled  feelings  of  curios- 
ity and  interest,  saw  that  the  the  long  eyelashes  were 
moist  with  tears.  Mr.  Howland  saw  it,  too,  and 
wondering  that  one  so  y*oungand  timid  should  come 
to  him  alone,  he  said: 

"  Little  girl,  have  you  no  friends — no  one  on 
wThom  to  depend,  save  yourself  ?" 

The  tears  on  the  eyelashes  now  dropped  upon 
the  cheek,  for  the  little  girl,  as  Mr.  Howland  had 


THE  BROWN  HOUSE. 


25 


called  her,  mistook  his  meaning  and  fancied  he  was 
thinking  of  security,  and  payment,  and  all  those 
dreadful  words  whose  definition  she  was  fast  learn- 
ing to  understand. 

"  I  have  a  father,"  she  said,  and  before  she  had 
time  for  more,  the  plain-spoken  Miss  Elinor  asked  : 

"  Why  didn't  he  come  himself,  and  not  send  you, 
who  seem  so  much  a  child  ?" 

There  was  reproach  in  the  question,  and  the 
young  girl  felt  it  keenly,  and  turning  toward  Miss 
Elinor,  she  answered  : 

"  My  father  could  not  find  the  way — he  never 
even  saw  my  face — he  couldn't  see  my  mother  when 
she  died.  Oh  !  he's  blind,  he's  blind,"  and  the 
voice,  which  at  first  had  merely  trembled,  was 
choked  with  bitter  sobs. 

The  hearts  of  both  brother  and  sister  were 
touched,  and  the  brown  house  in  the  hollow,  nay, 
any  house  which  Richard  Howland  had  to  rent, 
was  at  the  girl's  command.  But  he  was  a  man  of 
few  words,  and  so  he  merely  told  her  she  could 
have  both  tenement  and  work,  while  his  sister 
thought  howT  she  would  make  her  brother's  new 
tenants  her  especial  care. 

Miss  Elinor  was  naturally  of  a  rather  inquisitive 
turn  of  mind  and  she  tried  very  skillfully  to  learn 
2 


26 


THE   BROWN  HOUSE. 


something  of  the  stranger's  history.  But  the  young 
girl  evaded  all  her  questioning,  and  after  a  few 
moments  arose  to  go.  Mr.  Howland  accompanied 
her  to  the  door,  which  he  held  open  until  she  passed 
down  the  walk  and  out  into  the  street.  Then  the 
door  was  closed,  and  Alice  Warren  was  alone  again 
in  the  cold,  dark  night,  but  she  scarcely  heeded  it, 
for  her  heart  was  lighter  than  it  had  been  for  many 
weeks.  The  gentleman  whom  she  had  so  much 
dreaded  to  meet  had  spoken  kindly  to  her  ;  the  lady 
too,  had  whispered  "poor  child"  when  she  told 
her  of  her  father,  while  better  far  than  all,  she  had 
procured  a  shelter  for  her  father,  the  payment  for 
which  would  come  within  their  slender  means. 

Not  time,  but  the  joy  or  sorrow  it  brings, 
changes  people  most,  and  the  Alice  Warren  of  to- 
day is  scarce  the  same  we  saw  one  year  ago.  Then, 
petted,  caressed  and  glowing  with  youthful  beauty, 
she  presented  a  striking  contrast  to  the  pale-faced 
girl,  who,  on  the  wintry  night  of  which  we  write, 
traversed  street  after  street,  until  she  came  to  the 
humble  dwelling  which  for  the  last  few  days  had 
been  her  home.  Every  cent  of  his  large  fortune 
had  Mr.  Warren  given  up,  choosing  rather  to  starve 
and  know  he  had  a  right  to  do  so,  than  to  feed  on 
what  was  not  his  own.    His  handsome  house  and 


THE   BROWN  HOUSE. 


27 


furniture  had  all  been  sold,  and  with  a  mere  pittance, 
which  would  not  last  them  long,  they  had  gone 
into  the  country,  where  Alice  hoped  to  earn  a  live- 
lihood by  teaching.  But  she  was  "  too  small,  too 
childish,  too  timid,"  the  people  said,  ever  to  suc- 
ceed, and  so  at  last  she  resorted  to  her  needle, 
which  in  her  days  of  prosperity,  she  had  fortunate- 
ly learned  to  use. 

As  time  passed  on  a  kind-hearted  woman,  who 
visited  in  their  neighborhood,  became  interested 
in  them  and  urged  their  removal  to  Oakland,  her 
native  town,  whither  they  finally  went,  stopping 
with  her  for  a  few  days  until  further  arrangements 
could  be  made. 

Hearing  that  the  brown  house  in  the  hollow,  as 
it  was  called,  was  vacant,  Alice  had  applied  for  it, 
with  what  success  we  have  seen,  and  returning  home, 
she  told  her  father  the  result  of  her  application, 
and  how  small  a  sum  they  would  have  to  pay  for  it, 
and  how  neatly  she  could  fit  it  up,  and  how  in  the 
long  winter  evenings  he  should  sit  in  his  arm-chair 
before  the  cheerful  fire,  and  listening  to  her  as  she 
talked,  the  blind  man  thanked  God  that  the  wife-love 
he  had  lost  forever  was  in  a  measure  made  up  to 
him  in  the  love  of  his  only  child. 

Two  weeks  went  by,  and  then,  in  the  shoe  shop 


28 


THE  BROWN  HOUSE. 


and  store  the  workmen  said  to  each  other,  "  to-mor- 
row is  Christmas,"  wondering  if  Mr.  Howland 
would  present  each  of  the  families  in  his  employ 
with  a  turkey,  as  he  was  wont  to  do. 

He  had  always  done  it  before,  they  said,  he 
would  surely  do  so  now. 

Nor  were  they  disappointed,  for  when  the  day's 
labor  was  over,  each  man  was  given  his  usual  gift, 
and  when  all  had  been  served,  there  was  one  turkey 
left,  for  which  no  owner  came. 

"We  shall  need  it  ourselves  perhaps,"  Mr.  How- 
land  thought,  as  he  remembered  the  numerous  city 
friends  expected  on  the  morrow  ;  and,  as  he  was  not 
ashamed  to  carry  it  himself,  he  placed  it  in  a  cov- 
ered basked  and  started  for  home,  turning  invol- 
untarily down  the  street  which  would  take  him 
through  the  hollow.  He  did  not  often  go  that  way 
for  though  it  was  quite  as  near,  it  was  not  a  pleas- 
ant portion  of  the  town.  But  he  was  going  that 
way  now,  and  as  he  came  near  the  brown  house, 
from  whose  windows  a  cheerful  light  was  shining, 
he  thought  of  his  new  tenants,  and  half  decided  to 
call ;  then,  remembering  that  one  of  his  clerks  had 
told  him  of  a  young  lady  who  had  ir  quired  for 
him  that  afternoon,  expressing  much  regret  at  his 
absence     and    saying  she    should    call    at  his, 


THE  BROWN  HOUSE. 


29 


house  early  in  the  evening,  he  concluded  to  go 
on.  Still  the  light  shining  out  upon  the  snow, 
seemed  beckoning  him  to  come,  and  turning  back 
he  stood  before  the  window,  from  which  the'cur- 
tain  was  drawn  aside,  revealing  a  picture,  at  which 
he  paused  a  moment  to  gaze.  The  blind  man  sat 
in  his  old  arm-chair,  and  the  flickering  flame  of  the 
blazing  fire  shone  on  his  frosty  locks  and  lighted 
up  his  grief-worn  face,  on  which  there  was  a  pitiful 
expression,  most  touching  to  behold.  The  sight- 
less eyes  were  cast  downward  as  if  they  would  see 
the  fair  young  head  and  wealth  of  soft  brown 
tresses  resting  on  his  knee. 

Alice  was  crying.  All  day  long  she  had 
tried  to  repress  her  tears,  and  when,  as  she  sat  in 
the  gathering  twilight  with  her  father,  he  said,  "  She 
was  with  us  one  year  ago,"  they  burst  forth,  and 
laying  her  head  upon  his  lap  she  sobbed  bitterly. 

There  were  words  of  love  spoken  of  the  lost 
one,  and  as  Mr.  Howland  drew  near,  Mr.  Warren 
said  : 

l<  It  is  well,  perhaps,  that  she  died  before  she 
knew  what  it  was  to  be  so  poor." 

The  words  "  to  be  so  poor "  caught  Mr.  How- 
land's  ear,  and  glancing  around  the  humble  apart- 
ment he  fancied  he  knew  why  Alice  wept.  Just  then 


30 


THE  BBOWJST  HOUSE. 


she  lifted  up  her  head  and  he  saw  the  tears  on  her 
cheek.  Mr.  Howland  was  unused  to  tears — they 
affected  him  strangely — and  as  the  sight  of  them  on 
Alice  Warren's  eyelashes,  when  she  told  him  her 
father  was  blind,  had  once  brought  down  the  rent 
of  the  house  by  half,  so  now  the  sight  of  them  upon 
her  cheek  as  she  sat  at  her  father's  feet  brought 
himself  into  her  presence  and  the  turkey  from  his 
basket.  Depositing  his  gift  upon  the  table  and 
apologizing  for  his  abruptness,  he  took  the  chair 
which  Alice  offered  him,  and  in  a  short  space  of 
time  forgot  the  young  lady  who  had  so  nearly 
prevented  him  from  being  where  he  was — forgot 
everything  save  the  blue  of  Alice's  eyes  and  the 
mournful  sweetness  of  her  voice  as  she  an- 
swered the  few  questions  he  addressed  to  her.  He 
saw  at  once  that  both  father  and  daughter  were  edu- 
cated and  refined,  but  he  did  not  question  them  of 
the  past,  for  he  felt  instinctively  that  it  would  be  to 
them  an  unpleasant  subject,  so  he  conversed  upon 
indifferent  topics,  and  Alice,  as  she  listened  to  him, 
could  scarcely  believe  he  was  the  man  whom  she 
had  heretofore  associated  with  her  wages  of  Sat- 
urday night,  he  seemed  so  familiar  and  friendly. 

"  You  will  come  to  see  us  again,"  Mr.  Warren 
said  to  his  visitor,  when  the  latter  arose  to  go,  and 


THE  BROWN  HOUSE. 


31 


smiling  down  on  Alice,  who  stood  with  her  arm 
across  her  father's  neck,  Mr.  Howland  answered  : 
"  Yes,  I  "hall  come  again. " 

Then  he  bade  them  good  night,  and  as  the  door 
closed  after  him,  Mr.  Warren  said  : 

"  It  seems  darker  now  that  he  is  gone,"  but  to 
Alice,  the  room  was  lighter  far  for  that  brief  visit. 

Mr.  HowTland,  too,  felt  better  for  the  call.  He 
had  done  some  good,  he  hoped,  and  the  picture  of 
the  two  as  he  had  left  them  was  pleasant  to  remem- 
ber, and  as  he  drew  near  his  home,  and  saw  in 
imagination  his  own  large  easy-chair  before  the 
fire,  he  tried  to  fancy  how  it  would  seem  to  be  a 
blind  man,  sitting  there,  with  a  brown-haired  mai- 
den's arm  around  his  neck. 


32 


THE    WHITE  HOUSE. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  WHITE  HOUSE  ON  THE  HILL. 

ISS  Huntington,  brother,"  Miss  Elinor 
said,  and  Mr.  Howland  bowed  low  to 
the  lady  thus  presented  to  him  by  his 
sister  on  his  arrival  home. 
She  had  been  waiting  for  him  nearly  an  hour, 
and  she  now  returned  his  greeting  with  an  air  more 
befitting  a  queen  than  Adelaide  Huntington — for 
she  it  was  ;  and  by  some  singular  co-incidence  she 
had  come  to  rent  a  house  of  Mr.  Howland  just  as 
Alice  Warren  had  done  but  two  or  three  weeks  be- 
fore. The  failure  which  had  ruined  Mr.  Warren  had 
not  affected  Mrs.  Huntington  further  than  the  mor- 
tification and  grief  she  naturally  felt  at  the  disgrace 
and  desertion  of  her  husband,  from  whom  she  had 
never  heard  since  he  left  her  so  suddenly  on  the 
night  of  the  party — neither  had  she  ever  met  with 
Mr.  Warren,  although  she  had  written  him  a  note, 
assuring  him  that  in  no  way  had  she  been  con- 


THE    WHITE  HOUSE. 


33 


cerned  in  the  fraud.  Still  her  position  in  the  city 
was  not  particularly  agreeable,  and  after  a  time  she 
had  removed  to  Springfield,  Mass.,  where  she  took 
in  plain  sewing — for  without  her  husband's  salary 
it  was  necessary  that  she  should  do  something  for  the 
maintenance  of  her  family.  Springfield,  however, 
was  quite  too  large  for  one  of  Adelaide's  proud,  ambi- 
tious nature.  "She  would  rather  live  in  a  smaller 
place,"  she  said,  "  where  she  could  be  somebody. 
She  had  been  trampled  down  long  enough,  and  in 
a  country  village  she  would  be  as  good  as  any 
one." 

Hearing  by  chance  of  Oakland  and  its  demo- 
cratic people,  she  had  persuaded  her  mother  into 
removing  thither,  giving  her  numerous  directions 
as  to  the  manner  in  which  she  was  to  demean  her- 
self. 

"  With  a  little  management,"  she  said,  "  no  one 
need  to  know  that  we  have  worked  for  a  living — we 
have  only  left  the  city  because  we  prefer  the 
country,"  and  old  Peggy,  who  still  served  in  the 
capacity  of  servant,  was  charged  repeatedly  "  never 
to  say  a  word  concerning  their  former  position  in 
society." 

In  short,  Adelaide  intended  to  create  quite  a 
sensation  in  Oakland,  and  she  commenced  by  as- 
2* 


34 


THE    WHITE  HOUSE. 


suming  a  most  haughty  and  consequential  manner 
toward  both  Mr.  Howland  and  his  sister. 

"  She  had  come  as  mas  delegate/'  she  said,  to 
rent  the  white  house  on  the  hill,  which  they  had 
heard  was  vacant.  Possibly  if  they  liked  the  coun- 
try, they  should  eventually  purchase,  but  it  was 
doubtful — people  who  have  always  lived  a  city  life 
were  seldom  contented  elsewhere.  Still,  she  should 
try  to  be  happy,  though  of  course  she  should  miss 
the  advantages  which  a  larger  place  afforded. 

All  this  and  much  more  she  said  to  Mr.  How- 
land,  who,  hardly  knowing  whether  she  were  rent- 
ing a  house  of  him  or  he  were  renting  one  of  her, 
managed  at  last  to  say  : 

"  Your  mother  is  a  widow,  I  presume  ?" 

Instantly  the  dark  eyes  sought  the  floor,  and 
Adelaide's  voice  was  very  low  in  its  tone  as  she 
answered  : 

"I  lost  my  father  nearly  a  year  since.,, 

"  I  wonder  she  don't  dress  in  mourning,  but 
that's  a  way  some  folks  have,"  Miss  Elinor  thought, 
while  her  brother  proceeded  to  say  that  Mrs.  Hunt- 
ington could  have  the  white  house  on  the  hill,  after 
which  Adelaide  arose  to  go,  casually  asking  if  the 
right  or  left  hand  street  would  bring  her  to  the 
hotel,  where  she  was  obliged  to  spend  the  night, 


THE    WHITE  HOUSE. 


35 


as  no  train,  after  that  hour,  went  up  to  Spring- 
field. 

For  a  moment  Mr.  Hovvland  waited,  thinking 
his  sister  would  invite  the  stranger  to  stop  with 
them,  but  this  Miss  Elinor  had  no  idea  of  doing  ; 
she  did  not  fancy  the  young  lady's  airs,  and  she  sim- 
ply answered  : 

"  The  right  hand  street — you  can't  mistake  it 
frowning  slightly  when  her  brother  said  : 

"  I  will  accompany  you,  Miss  Huntington." 

"  I  dislike  very  much  to  trouble  you.  Still  I 
hardly  know  the  way  alone,"  and  Adelaide's  dark 
eyes  flashed  brightly  upon  him  as  she  accepted  his 
offer. 

Mr.  Howland  was  not  a  lady's  man,  but  he  could 
be  very  agreeable  when  he  tried,  and  so  Adelaide 
now  found  him,  mentally  resolving  to  give  her 
mother  and  old  Aunt  Peggy  a  double  charge  not  to 
betray  their  real  circumstances.  Mr.  Howland  evi- 
dently thought  her  a  person  of  consequence,  and 
who  could  tell  what  might  come  of  her  acquaintance 
with  him  ?  Stranger  things  had  happened,  and  she 
thought  that  if  she  ever  should  go  to  that  handsome 
house  as  its  mistress,  her  first  act  would  be  to  send 
that  stiff  old  maid  away. 

With  such  fancies  as  these  filling  her  mind,  Ade- 


36 


THE    WHITE  HOUSE. 


laide  went  back  next  day  to  Springfield,  reported 
her  success,  and  so  accelerated  her  mother's  move- 
ments that  scarcely  a  week  elapsed  ere  they  had 
moved  into  the  white  house  on  the  hill,  a  handsome 
little  cottage,  which  looked  still  more  cozy  and  in- 
viting after  Adelaide's  hands  had  fitted  it  up  with 
tasteful  care.  It  was  a  rule  with  Mrs.  Huntington 
to  buy  the  best,  if  possible,  and  as  her  husband  had 
always  been  lavish  with  his  money,  her  furniture 
was  superior  to  that  of  her  neighbors,  many  of 
whom  really  stood  in  awe  of  the  genteel  widow,  as 
she  was  thought  to  be,  and  her  stylish,  aristocratic 
daughter.  They  were  supposed  to  be  quite  wealthy, 
or  at  least  in  very  easy  circumstances,  and  more 
than  one  young  girl  looked  enviously  at  Adelaide, 
as  day  after  day  she  swept  through  the  streets, 
sometimes  "  walking  for  exercise,"  she  said,  and 
again  going  out  to  shop  ;  always  at  Mr.  Howland's 
store,  where  she  annoyed  the  clerks  excessively  by 
examining  article  after  article,  inquiring  its  price, 
wondering  if  it  would  become  her,  or  suit  ma,  and 
finally  concluding  not  to  take  it  "for  fear  every 
shoemaker's  daughter  in  town  would  buy  some- 
thing like  it,  and  that  she  couldn't  endure." 

Regularly  each  week  she  went  to  Springfield, 
to  take  music  lessons,  she  said,  and  lest  something 


THE    WHITE  HOUSE. 


37 


should  occur  making  it  necessary  for  her  to  stay  all 
night,  Aunt  Peggy  usually  accompanied  her  to  the 
depot,  always  carrying  a  well-filled  satchel,  and 
frequently  a  large  bundle,  whose  many  wrappings 
of  paper  told  no  tales,  and  were  supposed  by  the 
credulous  to  cover  the  dressing-gown,  which  Ade- 
laide deemed  necessary  to  the  making  of  her  morn- 
ing toilet. 

"  It  was  very  annoying,"  she  said,  "to  carry  so 
much  luggage,  but  the  friends  with  whom  she 
stopped  were  so  particular  that  she  felt  obliged  to 
change  her  dress,  even  though  she  merely  stayed  to 
dinner." 

And  so  the  villagers,  looking  at  the  roll  of 
music  she  invariably  carried  in  her  hands,  believed 
the  tale,  though  a  few  of  the  nearest  neighbors 
wondered  when  the  young  lady  practiced,  for  it  was 
not  often  that  they  heard  the  sound  of  the  old- 
fashioned  instrument  which  occupied  a  corner  of 
the  sitting-room.  Finally,  however,  they  de- 
cided that  it  must  be  at  night,  for  a  light  was 
always  seen  in  Mrs.  Huntington's  windows  until 
after  the  clock  struck  twelve.  As  weeks  went  by, 
most  of  those  whom  Adelaide  considered  someb&dies, 
called,  and  among  them  Mr.  Howland.  By  the 
merest  chance  she  learned  that  he  was  coming  and 


38 


THE    WHITE  HOUSE. 


though  she  pretended  that  she  was  surprised  to  see 
him,  and  said  she  was  just  going  out,  she  was 
most  becomingly  dressed  in  her  nicely-fitting 
merino,  which,  in  the  evening,  did  not  show  the 
wear  of  four  years.  The  little  sitting-room,  too, 
with  its  furniture  so  arranged  as  to  make  the  best 
of  everything,  seemed  home-like  and  cheerful,  caus- 
ing Mr.  Howland  to  feel  very  much  at  ease,  and 
also  very  much  pleased  with  the  dark-eyed  girl  he 
had  come  to  see.  She  was  very  agreeable,  he 
thought,  much  more  so  in  fact  than  any  one  he  had 
met  in  Oakland,  and  at  a  late  hour,  for  one  of 
his  early  habits,  he  bade  her  good  night,  promising 
to  call  again  soon,  and  hear  the  new  song  she 
was  going  to  learn  the  next  time  she  went  to 
Springfield. 

In  dignified  silence  his  sister  awaited  his  return, 
and  when  to  her  greeting,  "  Where  have  you  been  ?" 
he  replied,  "  Been  to  call  on  Miss  Adelaide,"  the 
depth  of  the  three  winkles  between  her  eyebrows 
was  perceptibly  increased,  while  a  contemptuous 
Pshaw  !  escaped  her  lips.  Miss  Elinor  was  not 
easily  deceived.  From  the  first  she  had  insisted 
that  Adelaide  "  was  putting  on  airs,"  and  if  there 
was  one  thing  more  than  another  which  that 
straightforward,  matter-of-fact  lady  disliked,  it  was 


THE    WHITE  HOUSE. 


39 


pretention.  She  had  not  yet  been  to  see  Mrs. 
Huntington,  and  now,  when  her  brother,  after 
dwelling  at  length  upon  the  pleasant  evening  he 
had  spent,  .urged  her  to  make  the  lady's  acquaint- 
ance, she  replied  rather  sharply,  that  she  always 
wished  to  know  something  of  the  people  with 
whom  she  associated.  For  her  part,  she  didn't  like 
Miss  Adelaide,  and  if  her  brother  had  the  least 
regard  for  her  feelings,  he  wouldn't  call  there  quite 
as  often  as  he  did. 

"  Quite  as  often,"  Mr.  Howland  repeated,  in 
much  surprise.  "  What  do  you  mean  ?  I've  only 
been  there  once,"  and  then  in  a  spirit  which  men 
will  sometimes  manifest  when  opposed,  particularly 
if  in  that  opposition  a  lady  is  involved,  he  added, 
"but  I  intend  to  go  again— and  very  soon,  too." 

"Undoubtedly,"  was  his  sister's  answer,  and 
taking  a  light,  the  indignant  woman  walked  from 
the  room,  thinking  to  herself  that,  if  ever  that 
girl  came  there  to  live — she'd  no  idea  she  would 
— but  if  she  did,  she — Miss  Elinor  Howland  would 
make  the  house  a  little  too  uncomfortable  for  them 


40 


CALLS. 


CHAPTER  V. 

CALLS. 

HE  next  morning  Miss  Elinor  felt  better, 
and  as  time  passed  on  and  her  brother 
did  not  again  visit  his  new  tenants,  she 
began  to  feel  a  little  more  amiably  disposed  toward 
the  strangers,  and  at  last  decided  to  call,  intending 
to  go  next  to  the  brown  house  in  the  hollow,  where 
she  was  a  frequent  visitor.  She  accordingly  started 
one  afternoon  for  the  white  house  on  the  hill,  where 
she  was  most  cordially  received.  With  the  ladylike 
manners  of  Mrs.  Huntington  she  could  find  no 
fault,  but  she  did  not  like  the  expression  of  Ade- 
laide's eyes,  nor  the  sneering  manner  in  which  she 
spoke  of  the  country  and  country  people  ;  neither 
did  she  fail  to  see  the  basket  which  the  young  lady 
pushed  hastily  under  the  lounge  as  Aunt  Peggy  ush- 
ered her  into  the  sitting  room.  On  the  table  there 
were  scissors,  needles  and  thread,  but  not  a  vestige 
of  sewing  was  visible,  though  on  the  carpet  were 


CALLS. 


41 


shreds  of  cloth,  and  from  beneath  the  lounge  peeped 
something  which  looked  vastly  like  the  wristband 
of  a  man's  shirt. 

"  Pride  and  poverty  !  I'll  venture  to  say  they 
sew  for  a  living,"  Miss  Elinor  thought,  and  making 
her  call  as  brief  as  possible,  she  arose  to  go. 

It  was  in  vain  that  Adelaide  urged  her  to  stay 
longer,  telling  her  "  it  was  such  a  treat  to  see  some 
one  who  seemed  like  their  former  acquaintances." 

With  a  toss  of  her  head  Miss  Elinor  declined, 
saying  she  was  going  to  visit  a  poor  family  in  the 
hollow,  a  blind  man  and  his  daughter,  and  in  adjust- 
ing her  furs  she  failed  to  see  how  both  Adelaide 
and  her  mother  started  at  her  words.  Soon  recov- 
ering her  composure,  the  former  asked,  who  they 
were,  and  if  they  had  always  lived  in  Oakland  ? 

"Their  name  is  Warren,"  said  Miss  Elinor, 
"  and  they  came,  I  believe,  from  some  city  in  west- 
ern New  York,  but  I  know  nothing  definite  con- 
cerning them,  as  they  always  shrink  from  speaking 
of  their  former  condition.  Alice,  though,  is  a  sweet 
little  creature — so  kind  to  her  old  father,  and  so  re- 
fined, withal." 

Mechanically  bidding  her  visitor  good  after- 
noon, Adelaide  went  to  her  mother's  side,  exclaim- 
ing : 


42 


CALLS. 


"  Who  thought  those  Warrens  would  toss  up  in 
Oakland  !  Of  course,  when  they  know  that  we  are 
here,  they'll  tell  all  about  father  and  everything 
else.    What  shall  wTe  do  ?" 

"  We  are  not  to  blame  for  your  father's  mis- 
deeds," Mrs.  Huntington  answered  ;  and  Adelaide 
replied  : 

"  I  know  it,  but  people  think  you  are  a  widow  ■ 
with  a  competence  sufficient  to  support  us  genteelly 
— they  don't  suspect  how  late  we  sit  up  nights,  sew- 
ing, to  make  ends  meet.  Mercy  !  I  hope  the  peek- 
ing old  maid  didn't  see  that,"  she  exclaimed,  as  her 
own  eye  fell  upon  the  wristband.  Then,  after  a 
moment,  she  continued,  "  I  know  what  I'll  do.  I'll 
go  to  Alice  this  very  night,  and  tell  her  how  sorry 
we  are  for  what  has  happened,  and  I'll  ask  her  to 
say  nothing  about  father's  having  cheated  them  and 
run  away.  She's  a  pretty  good  sort  of  a  girl,  I 
guess,  if  I  did  once  to  think  her  so  proud." 

The  plan  seemed  a  feasible  one,  and  that  evening 
as  Alice  Warren  sat  bending  over  a  vest,  which  she 
must  finish  that  night,  she  was  startled  by  the 
abrupt  entrance  of  Adelaide  Huntington,  who,  seiz- 
ing both  her  hands,  said,  with  well-feigned  distress  : 

"  My  poor  Alice  !    I  never  expected  to  find  you 
thus." 


CALLS.  43 

In  his  arm-chair  Mr.  Warren  was  sleeping,  buC 
when  the  stranger's  shadow  fell  upon  him,  he 
awoke,  and  stretching  out  his  arms,  he  said  : 

"  Who  is  it,  Alice  ? — who  stands  between  me  and 
the  fire  ?" 

"  It  is  I,"  answered  Adelaide,  coming  to  his  side, 
"the  daughter  of  him  who  ruined  you.  I  have  just 
learned  that  you  were  living  here  in  the  same  village 
with  ourselves,  and,  at  my  mother's  request,  I  have 
come  to  tell  you  how  bitterly  we  have  wept  over  my 
father's  sin,  and  to  ask  you  not  to  hate  us  for  a  deed 
of  which  we  knew  nothing  until  it  was  all  over." 

Then  seating  herself  in  a  chair  she  continued 
to  speak  hurriedly,  telling  them  some  truth  and 
some  falsehood— telling  them  how,  for  a  few  months 
they  had  lived  with  a  distant  relative,  a  wealthy 
man,  who  gave  them  money  now  for  their  support 
— telling  them  how  her  father's  disgrace  had  affect- 
ed her  mother,  and  begging  of  them  not  to  speak  of 
it  in  Oakland,  where  it  was  not  known. 

"  I  don't  know  why  it  is,"  she  said,  "but  people 
have  the  impression  that  mother  is  a  widow  ;  and 
though  it  is  wrong  to  deceive  them,  I  cannot  tell 
them  my  father  ran  away  to  escape  a  convict's  cell. 
It  would  kill  my  mother  outright,  and  if  you  will 
keep  silent,  we  shall  be  forever  grateful." 


41 


CALLS. 


There  was  no  reason  why  Mr.  Warren  should 
speak  of  his  former  clerk,  and  he  answered  Adelaide 
that  neither  himself  nor  Alice  had  any  wish  to  in- 
jure her  by  talking  of  the  past.  Thus  relieved  of 
her  fears,  Adelaide  grew  very  amiable  and  sympa- 
thetic, saying  she  did  not  suppose  they  were  so 
poor,  and  pitying  Alice,  who  must  miss  so  much 
her  pictures,  her  flowers,  her  birds  and  her  music. 

"  Come  up  and  try  my  piano.  You  may  practice 
on  it  any  time,"  she  said,  when  at  last  she  arose  to 
g°- 

"  I  never  played  much.  I  was  not  fond  of  it," 
was  Alice's  answer,  while  her  father  rejoined  quick- 
ly: 

"Then  you  keep  a  piano.  I  did  not  know  you 
had  one." 

"  Oh,  yes,  father  bought  it  for  me  at  auction, 
three  years  ago,  and  as  he  was  not  owing  any  one 
then,  our  furniture  was  not  disturbed." 

The  blind  man  sighed,  while  Alice  dropped  a 
tear  on  the  vest  she  was  making,  as  she  thought  of 
the  difference  between  herself  and  Adeleide,  who 
paused  as  she  reached  the  door,  and  asked  if  she 
knew  Mr.  Howland. 

"I  sew  for  his  store,"  said  Alice,  and  Adelaide 
continued  : 


CALLS.  45 
"  Isn't  he  a  splendid  man  ?" 

Alice  did  not  know  whether  he  was  splendid  or 
not — she  had  never  observed  his  looks  particular- 
ly, she  said  ;  but  she  knew  he  was  very  kind,  and 
she  liked  nothing  better  than  to  have  him  come 
there  evenings,  as  he  often  did. 

"Come  here  often  !"  exclaimed  Adelaide,  her 
voice  indicating  the  pang  with  which  a  feeling  of 
jealousy  had  been  brought  to  life. 

Before  Alice  could  reply  there  was  a  footstep 
outside,  and  the  blind  man,  whose  quick  ear 
caught  the  sound,  said  joyfully  : 

"  He's  coming  now." 

"  I  wish  I  had  gone  home  before,"  was  the  first 
thought  of  Adelaide,  who  did  not  care  to  be  seen 
there  by  Mr.  Howland.  It  might  lead  to  some  in- 
quiries which  she  would  rather  should  not  be  made. 
Still,  there  was  now  no  escape,  and  trusting  much 
to  the  promise  of  the  Warrens,  she  stepped  back 
from  the  door  just  as  Mr.  Howland  opened  it.  He 
seemed  greally  surprised  at  finding  her  there,  and 
still  more  surprised  when  he  learned  that  they  were 
old  acquaintances. 

"  It  is  kind  in  her  not  to  desert  them  in  their 
poverty,"  he  thought,  and  his  manner  was  still 
more  considerate  toward    Adelaide,    who,  after 


46 


CALLS. 


standing  a  few  moments,  made  another  attempt 
to  go. 

"Wait,  Miss  Huntington,"  said  he.  "It  was 
both  raining  and  snowing  when  I  came  in,  and  you 
will  need  an  umbrella." 

This  was  just  what  Adelaide  wanted,  and  taking 
a  seat  she  waited  patiently  until  Mr.  Howland 
signified  his  readiness  to  go.  Then,  bidding  Alice 
good  night,  she  whispered  to  her  softly  : 

"  You  never  will  say  a  word  of  father,  will  you  ?  " 

"  Certainly  not,"  was  Alice's  reply,  and  in 
another  moment  Adelaide  was  in  the  street  walking 
arm  in  arm  with  Mr.  Howland,  who  began  to  speak 
of  the  Warrens  and  their  extreme  poverty. 

"  It  is  evident  they  have  seen  better  days,"  he 
said,  "but  they  never  seem  willing  to  speak  of  the 
past.    Did  he  meet  with  a  reverse  of  fortune  ?  " 

For  a  moment  Adelaide  was  silent,  while  she  re- 
volved the  propriety  of  saying  what  she  finally  did 
say,  and  which  was — 

"  Ye-es — they  met  with  reverses,  but  as  they  are 
unwilling  to  talk  about  it,  I,  too,  had  better  say 
nothing  of  a  matter  which  cannot  now  be  helped." 

"  Of  course  not,  if  it  would  be  to  their  detri- 
ment," said  Mr.  Howland,  a  painful  suspicion 
entering  his  mind. 


CALLS. 


47 


Hitherto  he  had  regarded  Mr.  Warren  as  the  soul 
of  integrity,  but  Adelaide's  manner,  even  more  than 
her  words,  implied  that  there  was  something  wrong, 
and  hardly  knowing  what  he  said,  he  continued  : 

"  Was  it  anything  dishonorable  ?" 

"  If  you  please,  I  would  rather  say  nothing  about 
it,"  answered  Adelaide.  "  I  don't  wish  to  do  them 
harm,  and  I  dare  say  they  regret  it  more  than  any 
one  else." 

Mentally  pronouncing  her  a  very  prudent,  con- 
siderate girl,  Mr.  Howland  walked  on  in  silence, 
feeling  the  while  that  something  had  been  taken 
from  him.  He  had  become  greatly  interested  in  the 
helpless  old  blind  man,  and  in  his  writing-desk  at 
home  was  a  receipt  in  full  for  the  first  quarter's  rent, 
which  wTould  become  due  in  a  few  days.  But  Mr. 
Howland  was  a  man  of  stern  integrity,  hating  any- 
thing like  fraud  and  deceit,  and  if  Mr.  Warren  had 
been  guilty  of  either,  he  was  not  worthy  of  respect. 
Alice,  too,  though  she  might  not  have  been  in  fault, 
did  not  seem  quite  the  same,  and  now  as  he  thought 
of  her,  there  was  less  of  beauty  in  the  deep  blue  of 
her  eyes  and  the  wavy  tresses  of  her  hair. 


"  Will  you  go  in  ?    It  is  a  long  time  since  you 


48 


CALLS. 


were  here,"  said  Adelaide,  when  at  last  they  reached 
her  mother's  door. 

Her  invitation  was  accepted,  and  the  clock 
struck  nine  before  Mr.  Howland  rose  to  leave. 
Accompanying  him  to  the  door,  Adelaide  said, 
ingly  : 

"  I  trust  you  will  forget  our  conversation  con- 
cerning those  Warrens.  You  know  I  didn't  really 
tell  you  anything." 

Mr.  Howland  bowed  and  walked  away,  wishing 
in  his  heart  that  she  had  not  told  him  anything,  or 
at  least  had  not  created  in  his  mind  a  suspicion 
against  people  he  had  hitherto  liked  so  much.  So 
absorbed  was  he  in  his  meditations  that  he  did  not 
at  first  observe  the  slender  figure  which,  wrapping 
its  thin  shawl  close  around  it,  came  slowly  toward 
him,  but  when  the  girl  reached  him  and  the 
cold  wind  blew  the  brown  curls  over  her  white 
face,  he  knew  it  was  Alice  Warren,  and  his  first 
impulse  was  to  offer  her  his  arm  and  shield  her  from 
the  storm.  But  Adelaide's  dark  insinuations  were 
ringing  in  his  ears,  and  so  Alice  went  on  alone, 
while  the  rain  and  the  sleet  beat  upon  her  head  and 
the  cold  penetrated  through  her  half-worn  shoes, 
chilling  her  weary  feet,  and  sending  a  shiver  through 
her   frame.     But  she  did  not  heed  it,   or  even 


GALLS. 


49 


think  of  the  driving  storm,  so  eager  was  she  to  be 
at  home,  where  she  could  count  the  contents  of  the 
little  box  and  see  if  with  the  money  received  there 
was  not  enough  to  pay  the  quarter's  rent. 

But  the  blind  man,  listening  to  the  storm,  knew 
how  cold  his  darling  would  be,  and  groping  in  the 
darkness,  he  added  fresh  fuel  to  the  fire,  and  then 
swept  up  the  hearth,  placing  her  chair  a  little 
nearer  to  his  own,  so  that  it  would  seem  pleasant  to 
her  when  she  came.  Poor,  helpless  man  !  He  could 
not  see — nay,  he  had  never  seen  his  child,  but  he 
could  fancy  just  how  bright  and  beautiful  she  would 
look  sitting  at  his  side,  with  the  fire  he  had  made 
shining  on  her  hair,  and  when  at  last  she  came,  he 
clasped  her  little  red  hands  between  his  own,  rub- 
bing, kissing,  and  pitying  them  until  he  felt  that  they 
were  warm.  Then,  seated  in  his  chair,  he  listened 
while  she  counted  the  silver  coin,  dropping  it  piece 
by  piece  into  his  palm  and  bidding  him  guess  its 
value  by  its  size.  It  was  all  counted  at  last,  and 
very  joyfully  Alice  said  to  her  father: 

"  There  is  enough  to  pay  our  rent,  and  we  have 
been  comfortable,  too,  thanks  to  Miss  Elinor,  who 
has  saved  us  many  a  shilling  by  her  timely  acts  of 
charity." 

Miss  Elinor  had  been  to  them  a  ministering 
8 


50 


CALLS. 


angel,  and  however  much  she  might  be  disliked  at 
the  white  house  on  the  hill,  she  was  loved  and 
honored  at  the  brown  house  in  the  hollow,  and  that 
night  when  Alice  Warren  sought  her  pillow,  she 
breathed  a  prayer  for  the  kind  woman  who  was  to 
befriend  her  in  more  ways  than  one. 


PAY-DAY. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

PAY-DAY. 

ISS  ELINOR  sat  alone  in  her  pleasant 
parlor,  bending  over  her  bit  of  em- 
broidery, and  setting  her  needle  into  the 
dainty  fabric  in  a  manner  plainly  indi- 
cating a  mind  ill  at  ease.  And  for  a  lady  of  her 
temperament,  Miss  Elinor  was  a  good  deal  dis- 
turbed. During  the  past  week  her  brother  had 
spent  four  evenings  at  the  white  house  on  the 
hill,  and  though  she  had  unreservedly  given  him 
her  opinion  of  the  young  lady  Adelaide,  he  per- 
sisted in  saying  she  was  the  most  agreeable  and 
intelligent  girl  in  Oakland.  It  was  in  vain  that  she 
told  him  of  the  wristband,  saying  she  had  no  doubt 
they  sewed  secretly  for  a  living. 

He  only  smiled  incredulously,  telling  her,  how- 
ever, that  he  should  like  Adelaide  all  the  better  if 
he  found  she  was  skillful  in  shirt-making. 

In  short,  Miss  Elinor  began  to  have  some  well- 


52 


PAY-DAT. 


founded  fears  that  she  should  yet  have  an  oppor- 
tunity of  making  the  house  uncomfortable,  both  to 
herself  and  the  wife  her  brother  might  bring  there 
and  it  was  this  reflection  which  made  her  so  nerv- 
ous, that  pleasant  March  afternoon. 

"  I  would  rather  he  married  little  Alice  Warren 
— blind  father  and  all,"  she  thought,  just  as  the 
door  opened  softly,  and  "  little  Alice  Warren " 
stood  within  the  room. 

She  had  been  to  the  store  to  see  Mr.  How- 
land,  she  said,  and  as  he  was  not  there  she  had 
come  to  the  house,  hoping  to  find  him,  for  she 
would  rather  give  the  money  into  his  hand,  and 
know  there  was  no  mistake. 

"What  money,  child?"  asked  Miss  Elinor,  and 
Alice  replied  that  "it  was  pay-day,"  at  the  same 
time  opening  the  little  box  and  showing  the  pieces 
of  money  she  had  saved  from  her  earnings. 

Miss  Elinor  did  not  know  of  the  receipt  lying 
in  her  brother's  writing-desk,  but  she  resolved  that 
not  a  penny  should  be  taken  from  that  box,  and 
bidding  Alice  be  seated  on  a  little  stool  at  her  feet, 
she  told  her  to  wait  until  her  brother  came.  Then 
when  she  saw  how  languid  and  tired  Alice  seemed, 
she  put  her  head  upon  her  lap,  smoothing  the  long 
brown  curls  until  the  weary  girl  fell  asleep,  dream- 


PAY-DAT, 


5i 


ing  that  it  was  her  mother's  hand  which  thus  so 
tenderly  caressed  her  hair. 

For  half  an  hour  she  slumbered  on,  and  then 
Mr.  Howland  came,  treading  carefully  and  speak- 
ing low,  as  his  sister,  pointing  to  the  sleeping  girl, 
bade  him  not  to  wake  her. 

"  Look  at  her,  though.  Isn't  she  pretty  ?"  she 
whispered,  and  Mr.  Howland,  gazing  upon  the 
fair,  childish  face,  felt  that  he  had  seldom  seen  a 
more  beautiful  picture. 

In  a  few  words  Miss  Elinor  told  why  she  was 
there,  adding,  in  conclusion  : 

"  But  you  won't  take  it,  of  course.  You  are  rich 
enough  without  it,  and  it  will  do  them  so  much 
good." 

"  I  never  intended  to  take  it/'  Mr.  Howland 
replied,  and  going  to  his  library,  he  soon  return- 
ed with  the  receipt,  which  he  laid  within  the  box. 

Just  then  a  new  idea  presented  itself  to  the  mind 
of  Miss  Elinor.  They  would  change  the  silver,  she 
said,  into  a  bill,  which  they  could  roll  up  with  the 
receipt  and  put  in  Alice's  pocket  while  she  slept. 
This  plan  met  with  her  brother's  approval,  and 
when  at  last  Alice  awoke,  the  box  was  empty,  while 
Mr.  Howland,  to  whom  she  told  her  errand,  blush- 


54 


PAY-DAY. 


ing  deeply  to  think  he  had  found  her  sleeping, 
replied  indifferently  : 

"Yes,  I  found  it  there,  and  I  like  your  prompt- 
ness." 

At  that  moment  Miss  Elinor  left  the  room,  and 
when  she  returned,  she  bore  a  basket  of  delicacies 
for  the  blind  man,  who,  even  then,  was  standing  in 
the  open  door  at  home  and  listening  anxiously  for 
the  footsteps  which  did  not  often  linger  so  long. 
He  heard  them  at  last,  and  though  they  were  far 
down  the  street,  he  knew  they  were  Alice's,  and  clos- 
ing the  door  he  passed  his  hands  carefully  over  the 
tea-table,  which  he  himself  had  arranged,  feeling 
almost  a  childish  joy  as  he  thought  how  surprised 
Alice  would  be. 

"Oh,  father ! "  she  exclaimed,  when  at  last  she 
came  bounding  in,  "how  could  you  fix  it  so  nicely  ? 
and  only  think,  Miss  Elinor  has  sent  you  so  many 
good  things — here's  turkey,  and  cranberry  sauce, 
and  pie,  and  cheese,  and  jelly-cake,  and  white  sugar 
— and  everything.  I  mean,  for  once,  to  eat  just  as 
much  as  I  want,"  and  the  delighted  girl  arranged 
the  tempting  viands  upon  the  table,  telling  hei 
father,  the  while,  how  pleased  Mr.  Howland  was  at 
her  promptness. 


PAY-DAT. 


"  He  gave  you  a  receipt,  I  suppose  ? "  Mr. 
Warren  said,  and  Alice  replied  : 

"  Why,  no,  I  never  thought  of  a  receipt.  I'm  so 
sorry,"  and  in  her  confusion  she  hit  her  hand 
against  the  hissing  teapot  she  had  just  placed  upon 
the  table. 

The  slight  burn  which  she  received,  made  her 
handkerchief  necessary,  and,  in  feeling  for  it,  she 
touched  the  little  roll  which  Miss  Elinor  had  put  in 
her  pocket.  Drawing  it  forth,  and  examining  its 
contents,  she  experienced,  for  an  instant,  sensations 
similar  to  those  which  Benjamin's  brothers  may  be 
supposed  to  have  felt  when  the  silver  cup  was  found 
in  their  possession. 

"What  does  it  mean  ?"  she  exclaimed,  reading 
aloud  the  receipt  and  examining  the  bill,  which 
amounted  exactly  to  the  quarter's  rent. 

The  blind  man  knew  what  it  meant,  and,  bowing 
his  white  head  upon  his  bosom,  he  silently  thanked 
God  who  had  raised  them  up  friends  in  their  sore 
need.  Upon  Alice  the  surprise  produced  a  novel 
effect,  moving  her  first  to  laughter  and  then  to  tears, 
and,  notwithstanding  her  intention  of  "  eating  as 
much  as  she  liked,"  she  forgot  to  taste  many  of  the 
delicacies  spread  out  so  temptingly  before  her.  In 
her  estimation  they  were  almost  rich  again,  and 


56 


P AY -DAY, 


never,  perhaps,  came  sleep  to  her  more  sweetly  than 
on  that  night,  when  she  knew  that  the  contents  of 
the  little  box  was  theirs  to  do  with  as  they  pleased. 

Several  evenings  after  this  they  were  surprised 
by  a  call  from  Mr.  Rowland,  who  had  not  visited 
them  before  since  the  night  he  had  found  Adelaide 
Huntington  there.  Thoughts  of  Alice,  however,  as 
she  lay  sleeping  on  his  sister's  lap,  had  haunted  him. 
She  was  innocent  of  wrong,  he  was  sure,  and  he 
had  come  to  see  her.  It  was  hard,  too,  to  believe 
there  was  aught  of  evil  in  that  old  man  with  the 
snow  white  hair  and  truthful  looking  face,  and,  af- 
ter receiving  their  thanks  for  his  generosity,  he  re- 
solved to  question  them  a  little  of  the  past,  so  he 
commenced  by  asking  Alice  if  she  had  been  inti- 
mately acquainted  with  Adelaide  Huntington. 

Remembering  her  promise,  Alice  seemed  much 
embarrassed,  and  answered  hastily  : 

"We  were  never  intimate,"  while  at  the  same 
time  she  glanced  toward  her  father,  whose  voice 
trembled  slightly  as  he  rejoined  : 

"I  had  business  transactions  with  Adelaide's 
father,  but  our  families  seldom  met." 

The  next  momenh  te  was  talking  of  something 
else — his  manner  plainly  indicating  that  any  further 
allusion  to  the  Huntingtons  was  not  desired. 


PAT-DAY. 


57 


"  There  is  something  wrong,  or  they  would  not 
be  so  unwilling  to  talk  of  their  former  life,"  Mr. 
Howland  thought,  and,  with  his  suspicions  strength- 
ened, he  soon  took  his  leave,  stopping  by  the  way 
to  call  on  Adelaide,  whose  eyes  beamed  a  joyous 
welcome  as  he  entered  the  parlor,  in  which  she 
received  his  frequent  calls. 

Her  mother  was  in  the  way  in  the  sitting-room, 
she  thought,  and  whenever  she  had  reason  for  ex- 
pecting him,  she  made  a  fire  in  the  parlor,  shutting 
up  the  stove  and  turning  down  the  lamp  until  the 
ringing  of  the  bell  announced  his  arrival  ;  then, 
while  old  Peggy  hobbled  to  the  door,  she  opened 
the  draught  and  turned  up  the  lamp,  so  that  by  the 
time  Mr.  Howland  was  ushered  in,  everything 
looked  cheerful  and  inviting.  By  this  means,  too, 
she  escaped  another  annoyance,  that  of  being  urged 
to  play  ;  for,  if  Mr.  Howland  did  not  see  the  piano, 
he  was  not  as  likely  to  ask  her  to  sing,  and  she  had 
already  nearly  exhausted  her  powers  of  invention 
in  excuses  for  her  indifferent  playing  and  the  style 
of  her  music. 

Ma  insisted  upon  her  taking  old  pieces,  she 
said,  but  by  and  by,  when  she  had  a  new  piano, 
she  should  do  differently. 

Fortunately  for  her,  Mr.  Howland  was  not  a 
3* 


58 


PAY-DAT. 


musical  man  and  was  thus  more  easily  deceived. 
On  the  evening  of  which  we  are  speaking,  after 
listening  a  while  to  her  sprightly  remarks,  he  sud- 
denly changed  the  conversation  by  saying  he  had 
been  to  see  Mr.  Warren. 

"And  he  told  me,"  said  he,  "that  he  once  did 
business  with  your  father." 

Turning  her  face  away  to  hide  its  startled  ex- 
pression, Adelaide  asked  hastily  : 

"  What  else  did  he  tell  you  ?" 

"  Nothing,"  returned  Mr.  Howland.  "  He 
would  not  talk  of  the  past." 

"  I  should  not  suppose  he  would,"  quietly  re- 
joined Adelaide — then,  after  a  moment,  coming  to 
his  side,  she  continued,  "  Mr.  Howland,  I  wish  you 
would  promise  never  to  mention  that  subject  again, 
either  to  me  or  those  Warrens.  It  can  do  no  good, 
and  a  knowledge  of  the  truth  might  injure  some 
people  in  your  estimation.    Promise  me,  will  you  ?" 

Her  hand  was  laid  imploringly  upon  his  arm, 
her  handsome,  dark  eyes  looked  beseechingly  into 
his,  and  as  most  men  under  similar  circumstances 
would  have  done,  he  promised,  while  Adelaide 
mentally  congratulated  herself  upon  the  fact  that 
his  business  never  took  him  to  the  city  where  she 
had  formerly  lived,  and  where  the  name  of  Hunt- 


PAY-DAY. 


59 


ington  had  scarcely  yet  ceased  to  be  a  by-word  in 
the  street.  Mr.  Howland  was  much  pleased  with 
her,  she  knew,  and  if  they  could  manage  to  keep  up 
appearances  a  little  longer,  he  might  be  secured. 
One  thing,  however,  troubled  her.  Pay-day  was 
near  at  hand,  but  alas  for  the  wherewithal  to  pay. 

It  was  not  in  her  mother's  purse,  nor  yet  in  any 
other  purse  whence  they  could  procure  it.  Still 
Adelaide  trusted  much  to  her  inventive  genius,  and 
when  she  bade  Mr.  Howland  good  night,  chatting 
gayly  as  she  accompanied  him  to  the  door,  he  little 
dreamed  how  her  mind  was  distracted  with  ways 
and  means  by  which  to  dupe  him  still  more  effectu- 
ally. 


Three  weeks  passed  away,  and  then,  as  Miss  Eli- 
nor sat  one  evening  with  her  brother,  she  asked  him 
if  Mrs.  Huntington's  rent  were  not  that  day  due. 

"  Possibly,  though  I  have  not  given  it  a  thought," 
Mr.  Howland  answered,  his  voice  indicating  that  he 
neither  deemed  it  essential  for  himself  to  be  partic- 
ular, or  his  sister  to  be  troubled,  about  Mrs.  Hunt- 
ington's rent. 

As  far  as  dollars  and  cents  were  concerned,  Miss 
Elinor  was  not  troubled,  though  she  did  think  it 


60 


PAY-BAY. 


doubtful  whether  Adelaide  would  be  as  prompt  as 
Alice  had  been.  But  when,  as  if  to  verify  a  proverb 
not  necessary  to  be  repeated  here,  Adelaide  came  to 
the  door  almost  before  her  brother  had  ceased  speak 
ing,  she  began  to  think  her  suspicions  groundless, 
and  her  manner  was  quite  conciliatory  toward  the 
young  lady,  who,  after  throwing  back  her  veil  of 
dotted  lace  and  fidgeting  a  while  in  her  chair,  man- 
aged to  say: 

"It  is  very  humiliating  to  me,  Mr.  Howland,  to 
tell  you  what  ma  says  I  must.  She  fully  expected 
that  the  agent  who  does  her  business  would  have 
sent  her  money  ere  this,  but  as  he  has  not,  she  can- 
not pay  you  to-day.  Shall  we  pack  up  our  things 
at  once  ?"  she  continued,  playfully,  as  she  saw  the 
expression  on  Mr.  Howland's  face. 

"  Perhaps  you  had  better,"  he  answered  in  the 
same  strain,  continuing  in  a  more  sober  tone. 
"Tell  your  mother  not  to  be  concerned  about  the 
rent.  It  does  not  matter  if  it  is  not  paid  until  the 
end  of  the  year." 

Adelaide  drew  a  relieved  breath,  while  Miss  Eli- 
nor dropped  her  embroidery  and  involuntarily  gave 
vent  to  a  contemptuous  "  Umph  !" 

The  sound  caught  Adelaide's  ear,  and  thinking 
to  herself,  "Stingy  old  thing — afraid  they  will  lose 


pay-day. 


61 


it,  I  dare  say/'  she  made  her  call  as  brief  as  possi- 
ble. 

Nodding  to  her  civily  as  she  arose  to  go,  Miss 
Elinor  turned  to  her  brother,  saying  : 

"You  know,  Richard,  you  are  to  go  with  me  to- 
night to  call  on  Jenny  Hayes." 

But  Richard  did  not  know  it,  and  as  his  dis- 
tressed sister  saw  him  going  down  the  walk  with 
Adelaide  Huntington  on  his  arm,  she  muttered  : 

"  Fd  like  to  see  the  man  who  could  make  such  a 
fool  of  me  as  that  girl  has  made  of  him  !  " 

A  wish  not  likely  to  be  verified,  considering  that 
she  had  already  lived  forty-five  years  without  see* 
ing  the  man. 


02 


THE    UNKNOWN  DELIVERER. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  UNKNOWN  DELIVERER. 

ERY  rapidly  the  spring  passed  away,  and 
che  soft,  sunny  skies  of  June  had  more 
than  once  tempted  the  blind  man  and 
his  daughter  into  the  open  fields,  or  the 
woods  which  lay  beyond.  Their  favorite  resort, 
however,  was  a  retired  spot  on  the  bank  of  the 
river,  where,  shut  out  from  human  eyes,  they  could 
speak  together  of  the  past,  the  present,  and  what 
the  future  might  bring.  Here,  one  pleasant  after- 
noon, they  came,  and  while  Mr.  Warren  talked  of 
his  childhood  and  his  early  home,  Alice  sat  sewing 
at  his  feet,  until  growing  somewhat  weary,  she  arose 
and  began  to  search  for  wild  flowers  upon  the 
mossy  bank.  Suddenly  espying  some  beautiful 
pond-lilies  floating  upon  the  surface  of  the  water, 
she  exclaimed  : 

"  Oh,  father,  father,  these  must  be  white  lilies 
just  like  those  you  used  to  gather  when  a  boy." 


THE    UNKNOWN    DELIVERER.  63 


"  Where,  where  ?"  the  blind  man  asked,  and  his 
face  shone  with  the  intense  longing  he  felt  to  hold 
once  more  within  his  hand  the  fair  blossoms  so  in- 
terwoven with  memories  of  his  boyhood. 

"  They  are  here  on  the  river,"  Alice  replied, 
"and  I  can  get  them,  too,  by  going  out  upon  that 
tree  which  has  partly  fallen  into  the  stream." 

"  Don't,  Alice — don't !  There  may  be  danger," 
Mr.  Warren  said,  shuddering  even  while  he  spoke 
with  an  undefinable  fear. 

But  Alice  was  not  afraid,  and  springing  lightly 
upon  the  trunk  of  the  tree  she  ventured  out — 
farther,  and  farther  still,  until  the  lilies  were  just 
within  her  reach,  when,  alas,  the  branch  against 
which  she  leaned  was  broken,  and  to  the  ear  of  the 
blind  man  sitting  on  the  grass  there  came  the  start- 
ling cry  of  "Father!"  while  a  heavy  splash  in  the 
deep,  dark  water,  told  that  Alice  was  gone. 

In  wild  agony  the  distracted  man  ran  to  the 
water's  edge  and  unhesitatingly  waded  in,  shriek- 
ing, as  he  did -so  : 

"  My  child  !  my  child  !  Is  there  no  eye  to  pity, 
no  arm  to  save  ?" 

Yes,  there  was  an  eye  to  pity,  and  it  raised  up  an 
arm  to  save;  for,  rushing  from  a  clump  of  alders 
which  grew  not  far  away,  there  came  a  rough,  hard- 


64 


THE    UNKNOWN  DELIVERER. 


featured  man,  who,  catching  up  Mr.  Warren  as  if 
he  had  been  a  child,  bore  him  back  to  the  grassy 
bank,  then  boldly  plunging  into  the  river,  he  seized 
the  long  tresses  of  the  drowning  girl,  just  as  they 
were  disappearing  for  the  third  and  last  time. 
Wringing  the  water  from  her  brown  hair,  the 
stranger  folded  his  light  burden  gently  to  his 
bosom,  and  bending  over  her  still,  white  face, 
looked  earnestly  to  see  if  she  were  dead.  There 
was  yet  life,  he  hoped,  and  swimming  to  the  shore, 
he  laid  the  unconscious  maiden  upon  the  grass? 
resting  her  head  in  the  lap  of  her  father,  who  cried  : 

"Is  she  dead — oh,  tell  me,  is  she  dead  !" 

But  the  stranger  made  him  no  reply,  save  to 
take  his  hand  and  lay  it  on  the  little  heart  which 
was  beating  faintly.  Then  ivith  rapid  footsteps  he 
walked  away,  half  pausing  once  as  he  heard  the 
poor  old  man  call  after  him  imploringly. 

"Don't  leave  me  all  alone,  for  I  am  blind,  and 
Alice's  heart  will  stop  beating,  I'm  afraid.  It  has 
stopped  beating  !  She's  dead  !  oh,  she's  dead  !"  he 
screamed,  as  in  the  distance  he  heard  the  tramping 
footsteps  going  from  him  fast. 

Still  though  he  knew  it  not,  they  went  for  himk 
and  Mr.  Howland,  whom  chance  had  led  that  way, 
was  surprised  in  his  walk  by  the  sudden  appearance 


THE    UNKNO  WN    DELI  VERER. 


65 


of  a  man  with  uncovered  head  and  dripping  gar- 
ments, who  bade  him  hasten  to  the  river  bank, 
where  a  young  girl,  he  feared,  was  drowned. 

"  I  am  going  for  a  physician, "  he  said,  and  he 
sped  away,  while  Mr.  Hovvland  hurried  on  to  the 
spot  where  Alice  still  lay  insensible,  and  whiter 
than  the  lilies  for  which  she  had  risked  her  life. 
Over  her  bent  the  poor  old  man,  his  tears  falling 
like  rain  upon  her  face,  and  himself  whispering 
sadly  : 

"It's  darker  now  than  midnight — they  are  all 
gone  from  me — wife,  daughter,  all ;  oh,  Alice,  Alice, 
my  bright,  my  beautiful  one.  Why  did  God  take 
you  from  me  when  I  needed  you  so  much  ?" 

"  She  may  not  be  dead,"  said  Mr.  Howland,  and 
touched  with  the  grief  of  the  stricken  man,  his  own 
tears  dropped  on  Alice's  face. 

But  they  did  not  rouse  her,  and  with  a  terrible 
fear  at  his  heart,  he  lifted  her  lightly  in  his  arms, 
saying  to  her  father  : 

"  My  house  is  nearer  than  any  other — we  must 
go  there." 

Dizzy  and  faint  with  excitement,  Mr.  Warren 
arose  to  his  feet,  but  to  walk  was  impossible,  and 
sinking  back  upon  the  grass,  he  cried  : 


66  THE    UNKNOWN  DELIVERER. 


"  Leave  me  here  and  care  for  her.  You  can  send 
for  me  by-and-by." 

This  seemed  the  only  alternative,  and  Mr.  Howland 
started  for  home,  meeting  ere  long  with  several  of 
the  villagers  who  had  been  alarmed  by  the  stranger. 
A  few  of  them  kept  on  to  the  river,  while  others  ac- 
companied Mr.  Howland  to  the  house,  where  crowds 
of  people  were  soon  assembled,  and  where  every 
possible  means  wTere  used  for  Alice's  recovery.  But 
they  seemed  in  vain,  and  when  at  last  the  poor  old 
father  reached  the  door  he  knew  by  the  death-like 
silence  pervading  the  room,  that  the  physician  had 
said,  "  no  hope." 

"Lead  me  to  her,  somebody — lead  me  to  Alice," 
he  whispered,  and  taking  his  outstretched  arm,  Mr. 
Howland  led  him  to  the  couch  where  Alice  lay,  her 
wavy  hair  clinging  in  damp  masses  to  her  forehead, 
and  her  long  eyelashes  resting  upon  her  marble 
cheek. 

Quickly  the  trembling  fingers  sought  the  heart, 
but  alas  !  they  felt  no  motion,  and  more  than  one 
turned  away  to  weep  as  they  saw  the  look  of  bitter 
anguish  settling  down  upon  the  father's  face. 
There  was  yet  one  test  more,  and  laying  his  ear 
upon  the  bosom  of  his  child,  the  blind  man  listened 


TEE    UNKNOWN    DELIVERER.  67 
i 

intently,  while  the  lookers-on  held  their  breath  in 
agonizing  suspense. 

Suddenly  through  the  room  there  rang  the  wild, 
glad  cry,  "  I  hear  it — she  lives,  she  lives  !"  and  with 
renewed  courage  the  people  returned  to  their  labor, 
which  this  time  was  successful,  for  she  who  had  been 
so  near  to  death,  came  slowly  back  to  life,  and  when 
the  sun  went  down,  its  last  parting  rays  shone  on 
the  bowed  head  of  one  who  from  his  inmost  soul  was 
thanking  God  for  not  having  written  him  "  child- 
less/' 

It  was  thought  advisable  that  Alice  should  re- 
main where  she  was  for  a  day  or  two,  and  they 
carried  her  into  a  large,  pleasant  chamber,  overlook- 
ing the  town,  Miss  Elinor  constituting  herself  the 
nurse,  and  ever  and  anon  bending  down  to  kiss 
the  lips  of  the  young  girl  who  had  so  narrowly 
escaped  a  watery  grave. 

Meanwhile,  in  the  parlors  below,  both  Mr.  War- 
ren and  Mr.  Howland  were  making  inquiries  for 
the  stranger,  who,  after  giving  the  alarm,  had  sud- 
denly disappeared.  No  one  had  seen  him  since,  and 
of  those  who  had  seen  him  before,  none  knew  who 
he  was  or  whence  he  came. 

"  If  I  could  have  heard  the  sound  of  his  voice,  I 
should  know  him  anywhere,"  said  Mr.  Warren, 


08 


THE    UNKNO  WN    DELI  VERER. 


while  Adelaide  Huntington,  who  had  not  been  there 
long,  and  who,  for  some  reason,  did  not  like  to  hear 
much  of  the  stranger,  suggested  that  it  might  have 
been  some  foot  traveler,  who,  not  caring  for  thanks, 
had  gone  on  his  way. 

This  seemed  probable  and  satisfactory  to  all, 
save  Mr.  Warren,  who  replied  : 

"  If  he  would  come  back,  I've  nothing  in  the 
wide  world  to  offer  him  ;  but  an  old  man's  blessing 
might  be  of  some  avail,  and  that  he  should  have, 
even  though  he  were  my  bitterest  enemy,  and  had 
done  me  terrible  wrong." 

There  was  a  deep  flush  on  Adelaide's  cheek  as 
Mr.  Warren  said  these  words,  and  turning  quickly 
away,  she  walked  to  the  window  to  hide  the  emo- 
tions which  she  knew  were  plainly  visible  upon  her 
face.  She  seemed  greatly  excited,  and  far  more  in- 
terested in  the  accident  than  her  slight  friendship 
for  the  Warrens  would  warrant,  and  when  she 
learned  that  Alice  was  to  remain,  she,  too,  insisted 
upon  staying  all  night,  provided  she  could  be  of 
any  assistance.  But  Miss  Elinor  declined  her  offer, 
and  at  a  late  hour  she  started  for  home,  managing 
to  steal  away  when  Mr.  Howland  did  not  see  her. 
She  evidently  did  not  wish  to  have  him  accompany 
her,  and  for  a  few  succeeding  days  she  avoided  him 


THE    UNKNOWN    DELIVERER.  69 


going  to  his  house  but  once,  and  that  on  the  morn- 
ing when  Alice  was  taken  home  in  the  carriage. 
There  was  something  preying  upon  her  mind — 
something,  too,  whose  nature  neither  Mr.  Howland 
nor  his  far-seeing  sister  could  divine,  though  the 
former  fancied  he  had  discovered  it,  when,  a  little 
more  than  a  week  after  the  accident,  she  came  to 
him  with  her  face  all  wreathed  in  smiles  and  handed 
him  the  entire  amount  of  money  then  due  for  the 
rent. 

That  provoking  agent  had  attended  to  them  at 
last,  she  said,  and  she  was  so  glad,  for  it  was  very 
mortifying  to  be  owing  any  one. 

"And  this  is  wirat  has  been  troubling  you  of 
late  ?"  said  Mr.  Howland,  who  was  greatly  pleased 
at  seeing  her  appear  like  herself  again. 

"Then  you  noticed  it,"  Adelaide  replied,  col- 
oring crimson,  and  adding  hastily  :  "  We  have  re- 
cently been  much  annoyed  and  perplexed,  but  for 
the  future  our  agent  will  be  prompt,  and  so  shall 
we." 

Whether  the  agent  referred  to  was  prompt  or  not, 
there  seemed  for  several  weeks  to  be  plenty  of 
money  at  the  white  house  on  the  hill — so  much  so, 
in  fact,  that  Adelaide  did  not,  as  usual,  go  to 
Springfield  to  take  her  accustomed  lesson,  while 


70  THE    UNKNOWN  DELIVERER. 


old  Peggy,  whose  shabby  dress  was  beginning  to 
create  some  gossip  among  the  villagers,  presented 
quite  a  respectable  appearance  in  her  new  gingham 
and  muslin  cap.  About  this  time,  too,  there  was 
sent  by  mail  to  Mr.  Warren  the  sum  of  twenty-five 
dollars,  and  as  there  was  no  word  of  explanation 
accompanying  it,  he  naturally  felt  curious  to  know 
from  whom  it  came. 

"Miss  Elinor  sent  it,  I  am  sure.  It  is  exactly  like 
her,"  said  Alice,  who  was  now  entirely  well,  and 
that  afternoon,  when  her  work  was  done,  she  went 
up  to  see  Miss  Howland,  whom  she  found  suffering 
from  a  severe  headache,  and  in  ministering  to  her 
wants  she  entirely  forgot  to  speak  of  the  money. 
The  next  day  Miss  Elinor  was  much  worse,  and  for 
many  weeks  was  confined  to  her  bed  with  a  linger- 
ing fever,  which  left  her  at  last  so  nervous  and  low 
that  her  physician  advised  a  journey  to  the  West 
as  the  surest  means  of  restoring  her  health.  Her 
only  sister  was  living  in  Milwaukee,  and  thither 
Mr.  Howland,  who  began  to  be  seriously  alarmed, 
tried  to  persuade  her  to  go.  For  a  time  Miss  Elinor 
hesitated,  and  only  consented  at  last  on  condition 
that  her  brother  promised  not  to  engage  himself  to 
Adelaide  Huntington  during  her  absence. 

Bursting  into  a  laugh,  Mr.  Howland  assured  her 


THE    UNKNOWN  DELIVERER. 


71 


that  she  need  have  no  fears  of  finding  her  station, 
as  mistress  of  his  house,  filled  on  her  return,  for 
though  Adelaide  might  possibly  some  day  bear  the 
name  of  Hovvland,  he  could  wait  a  while,  and  would 
do  so  for  his  sister's  sake. 

With  this  promise  Miss  Elinor  tried  to  be  satis- 
fied, and  after  giving  him  many  charges  not  to 
neglect  the  blind  man,  she  started  for  Milwaukee 
in  company  with  some  friends  who,  like  herself, 
were  westward  bound. 


72 


THE   PARTY  DRESS. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  PARTY  DRESS. 

T  was  now  the  first  of  December.  Miss 
Elinor  had  been  gone  from  home  nearly 
three  months,  and  during  this  time  Mr. 
Howland  had  spent  one-half  of  his  eve- 
nings at  least  with  Adelaide  Huntington,  who  mar- 
velled that  he  did  not  ask  her  to  be  his  wife.  But 
the  promise  made  to  his  sister  must  be  kept,  and  so, 
night  after  night,  he  came  and  went,  while  Adelaide 
experienced  fresh  pangs  of  fear  lest  her  deception 
should  be  discovered  ere  Mr.  Howland  was  secured. 

About  this  time  there  were  rumors  of  a  large 
party  to  be  given  by  Mrs.  Hayes,  the  most  fashion- 
able lady  in  Oakland,  and  knowing  well  how 
the  beauty  of  her  person  would  be  enhanced  by  a 
party  dress,  Adelaide  resolved  to  leave  no  means 
unspared  for  the  procuring  of  such  a  dress. 

She  had  always  observed,  she  said,  that  Mr. 
Howland  was  unusally  attentive  when  she  looked 


THE   PARTY  DRESS. 


73 


unusually  well,  and  there  was  no  knowing  what 
would  happen  if  she  eclipsed  all  the  ladies  who 
might  be  present  at  the  party,  and  then,  as  day 
after  day  went  by,  she  grew  impatient  because  no 
letter  came  from  one  who,  at  the  post-office,  was 
designated  as  ma's  provoking  agent,  but  who  at 
home,  with  none  but  mother  to  hear,  was  called 
by  a  different  name.  Fretting,  however,  was  of  no 
avail — the  provoking  agent  did  not  write,  and  her 
purse  contained  only  seven  dollars. 

"If  I  could  get  the  dress,"  she  said,  "I  might 
possibly  manage  the  rest,"  and  then,  as  she  re- 
membered the  dainty  fabric  which  Alice  Warren 
had  worn  upon  that  memorable  Christmas  Eve, 
she  started  to  her  feet  exclaiming,  "  That's  a  good 
idea,"  and  ere  her  mother  had  time  to  question  her 
she  was  on  her  way  to  the  brown  house  in  the 
hollow. 

For  a  few  weeks  past  Mr.  Warren  had  been 
seriously  ill,  and  though  Alice  worked  both  early 
and  late,  she  could  not  procure  for  him  the  little 
comforts  which  he  needed  and  missed  so  much. 
Miss  Elinor's  words,  Do  not  neglect  the  blind 
man,  had  been  forgotten,  and  many  a  weary  night 
had  the  blind  man's  daughter  bent  with  aching  head 
and  tearful  eyes  over  the  piece  of  work  which  her 
4 


74 


THE   PARTY  DRESS. 


increased  cares  had  not  permitted  her  to  finish  dur- 
ing the  day.  They  were  indeed  drinking  the  bitter 
cup  of  poverty,  and  the  sick  man  in  his  sleep  was 
moaning  sadly  for  wine,  which  he  said  would  make 
him  strong,  when  Adelaide  Huntington  entered  the 
humble  room.  Glancing  hurriedly  at  the  scanty 
fire  and  empty  wood-box,  she  thought  : 

"  They  must  be  wretchedly  poor — I  dare  say  I 
can  get  it  for  almost  nothing." 

Then  seating  herself  by  Alice's  side,  she  told  at 
once  the  object  of  her  visit.  She  had  never  for- 
gotten the  beautiful  lace  dress  which  Alice  had 
worn  on  the  night  of  her  party,  and  if  there  was 
one  thing  more  than  another  which  she  coveted,  it 
was  that.  In  short  she  wished  to  know  if  Alice  had 
it  now,  and  if  so,  would  she  sell  it,  telling  no  one 
that  it  had  ever  belonged  to  her. 

At  the  first  mention  of  the  dress,  Alice's  tears 
began  to  flow,  for  it  was  almost  the  only  relic  of 
the  past  w^hich  she  possessed,  and  now,  laying  her 
head  in  Adelaide's  lap  she  sobbed  out : 

"  Oh,  Adelaide,  my  mother  bought  it  for  me, 
and  can  I  let  it  go  ?" 

"You  know  which  you  need  the  most,  that  or 
the  money,"  was  Adelaide's  cold  reply,  while  from 
his  pillow  the  sick  man  faintly  murmured  : 


THE   PARTY  DRESS. 


75 


"Something  to  make  me  well." 

This  was  enough,  and  wiping  her  tears  away, 
Alice  took  from  her  trunk  the  dress,  sighing  deeply 
as  she  recalled  the  night  when  first  and  last  she 
wore  it. 

"  I  did  not  know  it  was  so  exquisitely  beautiful/* 
was  Adelaide's  mental  comment  as  Alice  shook  out 
the  soft,  fleecy  folds,  but  she  did  not  say  so. 
On  the  contrary  she  depreciated  its  value,  say- 
ing, it  had  turned  yellow,  was  rather  old-fash- 
ioned, and  a  second-hand  article  at  most,  besides 
being  quite  too  short  for  her  in  its  present  condi- 
tion. 

In  this  manner  she  paved  the  way  to  the  price 
which  she  finally  offered,  and  which  Alice  at  first 
refused  to  take.  Four  dollars  seemed  so  little  for 
what  had  cost  so  much.  But  Alice's  necessities 
were  great,  and  when  Adelaide  offered  her  another 
dollar  to  change  the  dress  as  it  would  have  to  be 
changed  for  her,  she  yielded,  promising  to  have  it 
in  readiness  and  bring  it  home  on  the  night  of  the 
party.  After  trying  it  on  and  giving  numerous 
directions  as  to  the  changes  she  wished  to  have 
made,  Adelaide  arose  to  go,  saying  nothing  con- 
cerning the  pay.  With  a  beating  heart  Alice  saw 
her  about  to  leave,  and  though  it  cost  her  a  mighty 


76 


THE   PARTY  DRESS. 


effort  to  do  so,  she  at  last  conquered  her  pride  and 
catching  Adelaide's  shawl  as  she  was  passing  out, 
she  said  with  quivering  lips  : 

"  If  you  only  will  pay  me  part  to-day  !  Father 
is  sick,  and  we  are  so  poor,"  and  the  little  blue 
veined  hands  were  clasped  beseechingly  together. 

"  There's  a  dollar,  if  that  will  do  you  any  good," 
said  Adelaide,  thrusting  a  bill  into  Alice's  hand, 
and  then  hurrying  away. 

She  had  no  intention  of  cheating  Alice  out  of 
her  pay,  but  she  hated  to  part  with  her  money,  and 
on  her  way  home  she  thought  of  so  many  things 
which  she  must  have,  that  she  began  at  last  to  won- 
der if  Alice  would  not  just  as  soon  take  something 
from  the  house,  bread,  or  potatoes,  or  soap — she 
heard  old  Peggy  boasting  of  having  made  a  barrel 
full,  and  soap  was  a  very  useful  article — she'd  ask 
Alice  when  she  brought  t'he  dress  !  and,  feeling  a 
good  deal  of  confidence  in  her  plan,  she  stopped  at 
Mr.  Howland's  store,  where  she  spent  a  portion  of 
her  remaining  six  dollars  for  white  kids,  satin  rib- 
bon, blonde  lace  and  so  forth. 

As  she  was  leaving  the  store,  she  met  Mr.  How- 
land,  who  accompanied  her  to  the  door,  casually 
asking  if  she  knew  how  Mr.  Warren  was  getting 
alcng. 


THE   PARTY  DRESS. 


77 


•'It  is  some  time  since  I  was  there,"  he  said, 
"  and  I  think  of  going  round  to-night.  As  he  is 
sick,  they  may  perhaps  be  suffering." 

"  Oh,  no,  they  are  not,"  Adelaide  quickly  re- 
joined, "I  have  just  been  to  see  them  myself.  Mr. 
Warren  is  no  worse,  and  they  are  doing  very  well. 
I  gave  Alice  some  work,  too,  paying  her  in  ad- 
vance." 

"  So,  on  the  whole,  you  think  I  had  better  spend 
the  evening  with  you,"  said  Mr.  Howland,  play- 
fully interrupting  her,  as  he  saw  that  one  of  his 
clerks  was  desirous  of  speaking  to  him. 

"  Most  certainly  I  do,"  she  answered  laughingly, 
as  she  passed  into  the  street. 

And  so  that  night,  while  her  father  slept,  poor 
Alice  Warren  trimmed  her  little  lamp,  and  with  a 
heavy  heart  sat  down  to  work  upon  the  costly  gar- 
ment, every  thread  of  which  seemed  interwoven 
with  memories  of  the  mother,  who  had  bought  it 
for  her.  Occasionally,  too,  she  lifted  up  her  head, 
and  listened  for  the  footsteps  which  now  but  seldom 
came  that  way,  for  only  once  had  Mr.  Howland 
been  there  since  her  father's  illness,  and  brushing 
away  a  tear,  she  sighed  : 

"  He  does  not  care  for  such  as  we." 

That  afternoon  she  had  heard  the  rumor  that 


78 


THE   PARTY  DBESS. 


the  proud  Miss  Huntington  was  to  be  his  wife, 
and  though  the  idea  that  she,  little  Alice  Warren, 
could  ever  be  aught  to  him,  had  never  entered  her 
mind,  the  news  affected  her  painfully,  and  as  she 
sat  alone  that  night,  the  world  seemed  darker, 
drearier  than  it  had  ever  been  before,  while  the 
future  home  of  Richard  Howland's  bride  looked 
very  pleasant  to  her. 

"  Alice,"  came  faintly  from  her  father,  and  in  a 
moment  Alice  was  at  his  side.  "Alice,  are  you 
sewing  to-night  ?" 

"  Yes,  father,  I  am  sewing." 

"  But  I  thought  you  finished  the  vest  this  after- 
noon.   What  are  you  doing  now  ?" 

Alice  hesitated.  She  could  not  tell  him  she  had 
sold  her  party  dress,  neither  would  she  tell  him  a 
lie,  so  she  finally  said  : 

"  Adelaide  came  here  while  you  slept,  and  I  am 
fixing  a  dress  for  her  to  wear  to  Mrs.  Hayes*  party. 
She  gave  me  a  dollar  for  it,  too,  and  to-morrow  I 
shall  buy  you  the  wine  which  Dr.  Martin  says  you 
need,  and  maybe  I'll  get  you  some  oranges,  too. 
Would  you  like  some  oranges,  father  ?" 

"  Yes,  yes,"  the  tremulous  voice  replied,  and  the 
childish  old  man  cried,  as  he  thought  that  to-mor- 
row he  would  have  the  wine  and  the  oranges,  too. 


THE   PARTY  DRESS. 


The  morrow  came,  and  with  it  came  the  deli- 
cacies so  long  desired.  But  the  sick  man  scarcely 
tasted  them  ;  "  some  other  time  he  might  want  them 
more,"  he  said,  and  with  a  feeling  of  disappoint- 
ment Alice  put  them  away,  while  her  father,  turn- 
ing wearily  upon  his  pillow,  prayed  that  the  deep, 
dark  waters,  through  which  he  instinctively  felt 
that  he  must  ere  long  pass,  might  not  be  suffered  to 
overflow. 

But  to  Alice  there  came  no  forebodings  like 
these.  She  only  knew  her  father  was  very  sick,  and 
she  fancied  that  the  luxuries  to  which  he  had  been 
accustomed  would  make  him  well  again. 

So  with  untiring  patience  she  worked  on,  think- 
ing how  the  money  which  Adelaide  was  to  pay  her 
should  be  expended  for  her  father's  comfort. 

Alas  for  the  poor  little  girl,  who,  just  as  it  was 
growing  dark  on  the  night  of  the  party,  folded 
carefully  the  finished  dress,  and  then  stole  softly  to 
her  father's  bedside,  to  see  if  he  w^ere  sleeping.  He 
was  very — very  pale,  and  on  his  face  there  was  a 
look  like  that  of  her  dead  mother. 

But  Alice  was  not  alarmed.  She  had  never 
thought  it  possible  for  him  to  die,  so  quiet,  so 
gentle,  so  uncomplaining  he  seemed. 

"  Father  "  she  said,  "  can  you  stay  alone  while  I 


80 


THE   PARTY  DRESS. 


carry  Adelaide  her  dress  ?  She  is  to  pay  me  more 
than  that  dollar,  and  I  will  buy  you  ever  so  many 
nice  things." 

"  By-and-by,"  he  whispered,  "  it  is  early  yet," 
and  drawing  Alice  to  him,  he  talked  to  her  of  her 
mother,  who,  he  said,  seemed  very  near  to  him  that 
night — so  near  that  he  could  almost  feel  her  soft 
hand  clasp  his  own,  just  as  it  used  to  do  in  the 
happy  days  gone  by.  And  while  he  talked  the  dark- 
ness in  the  room  increased — the  clock  struck  six, 
and  releasing  his  daughter  Mr.  Warren  bade  her  go. 

"He  felt  better,"  he  said,  "and  was  not  afraid  to 
stay  alone." 

"You  must  sleep  till  I  return.  I  shall  not  be 
gone  long,"  were  Alice's  parting  words,  and  going 
out,  she  walked  rapidly  in  the  direction  of  Mrs. 
Huntington's. 

In  a  very  unamiable  mood  Adelaide  met  her  at 
the  door,  chiding  her  for  her  delay,  and  saying  : 

"  I  began  to  think  you  were  never  coming." 

"  Father  has  been  worse,  and  I  could  not  work 
so  fast,"  was  Alice's  meek  reply,  as  she  followed 
Adelaide  into  the  sitting-room,  helping  her  try  on 
the  dress,  which  the  petulant  young  lady  declared: 

Didn't  fit  within  a  mile  !  It  was  too  high  in  the 


THE  PAETY  DBESS. 


81 


neck — too  long  in  the  waist — too  short  in  the  skirt, 
and  must  be  fixed  before  it  was  decent  to  wear  ! 

"  Oh,  I  can't  leave  father  so  long,"  said  Alice,  in 
dismay,  as  she  thought  how  much  there  was  to  be 
done. 

"111  risk  him,"  returned  Adelaide.  "Any  way, 
when  I  hire  anything  done  I  expect  it  to  suit  me,  or 
I  don't  pay,  of  course." 

This  remark  was  well-timed,  for  Alice  could  not 
go  back  without  the  money,  and  with  a  heavy  heart 
she  sat  down  to  her  task.  But  the  tears  blinded  her 
eyes,  and  so  impeded  her  progress  that  the  clock 
struck  eight  before  her  work  was  done. 

"  Now,  put  these  flowers  in  my  hair,  and  tie  my 
sash  just  as  yours  was  tied,"  said  the  heartless 
Adelaide,  as  she  saw  Alice  about  to  put  on  her 
bonnet. 

In  a  box  which  stood  upon  the  table  lay  the 
bead  purse,  and  glancing  at  that  Alice  did  whatever 
was  required  of  her,  nor  scarcely  felt  a  pang  when 
at  last  the  toilet  was  completed,  and  Adelaide 
Huntington  stood  before  her  arrayed  in  the  self- 
same dress  which  she  had  worn  but  two  short  years 
ago. 

"  I  meant  you  should  dress  me  all  the  time," 
said  Adelaide,  glancing  complacently  at  herself  in 
4*. 


82 


THE   PARTY  DRESS. 


the  mirror.  w  I  meant  you  should  dress  me — 
mother  knows  so  little  about  such  matters,  and 
then,  too,  she  is  sick  up  stairs  with  a  violent  head- 
ache, but  I  do  not  need  you  any  longer — what  are 
you  waiting  for  ?"  she  continued,  as  Alice  made  no 
movement  to  go. 

"  I  am  waiting  for  the  money  which  I  want  so 
much  to-night,"  answered  Alice. 

"Ah,  yes,  the  money/'  said  Adelaide,  making  a 
feint  to  examine  the  purse,  which  she  knew  was 
empty. 

Alice  knew  it,  too,  all  too  soon,  and  sinking 
down  upon  a  little  stool  she  cried  aloud : 

"What  shall  we  do  ?  The  wood  is  almost  gone, 
and  I  baked  the  last  cake  to-night.  Oh,  father, 
father,  what  will  you  do  to-morrow  ?" 

Adelaide  Huntington  was  not  hard-hearted 
enough  to  be  unmoved  by  this  appeal,  and  for- 
getting entirely  the  soap,  she  glided  from  the  room 
to  which  she  soon  returned,  bringing  a  basket  of 
food  for  Alice,  whom  she  comforted  with  the  assur- 
ance that  she  should  be  paid  as  soon  as  possible. 

"  I'd  no  idea  they  were  so  ppor,"  said  Adelaide 
to  herself,  as  the  door  closed  upon  Alice.  "  I  wish 
he  would  send  the  money  so  I  could  pay  the  debt 
and  have  it  off  my  mind." 


THE  PARTY  DRESS. 


83 


Just  then  the  village  omnibus  stopped  at  the 
door,  and  Adelaide  ran  for  a  moment  to  show  her 
mother  how  she  looked,  then  gathering  up  the 
folds  of  her  rich  lace  skirt,  and  throwing  on  her 
shawl,  she  entered  the  carriage  and  was  soon  rid- 
ing toward  the  scene  of  gayety,  while  Alice  Warren 
wras  hurrying  home,  a  nameless  terror  creeping  into 
her  heart,  and  vaguely  whispering  that  the  morrow, 
for  which  she  had  been  so  anxious,  might  bring  her 
a  sorrow  such  as  orphans  only  know. 


84 


THE  HEARTHSTONE. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  FIGURE  ON  THE  HEARTHSTONE 

OR  a  while  after  Alice  left  him,  Mr 
Warren  lay  perfectly  quiet,  trying  to 
number  the  minutes,  by  counting  each 
tick  of  the  clock,  and  wondering  if  it 
were  not  time  for  Alice  to  return.  While  thus 
engaged  he  fell  asleep,  and  when  at  last  he  woke 
there  was  a  deathlike  faintness  at  his  heart ;  his 
lips  were  dry  and  parched,  and  he  felt  a  strong  de- 
sire for  water  with  which  to  quench  his  burning 
thirst. 

"  Alice/'  he  said  feebly,  "  Alice,  is  that  you  ?  are 
you  here?"  but  to  his  call  there  came  no  answer, 
and  throughout  the  room  there  was  heard  no  sound 
save  the  steady  ticking  of  the  clock. 

Why  then  did  the  blind  man  raise  himself  upon 
his  elbow  and  roll  his  sightless  eyes  around  the 
silent  apartment.  Did  be  hear  aught  in  the  deep 
stillness?  He  thought  he  did — ay,  he  was  sure  he 
did,  and  again  he  called  : 


THE  HEARTHSTONE. 


85 


"  Alice,  Alice,  are  you  here  ?" 

But  Alice  made  him  no  reply,  and  as  the  minutes 
went  by,  the  sick  man  grew  delirious,  talking  of 
the  past,  which  seemed  present  with  him  now. 
Then,  as  reason  for  a  moment  returned,  he  moaned: 

"Oh,  Alice,  will  you  never  come?  The  fire  is 
going  out  and  I  am  growing  cold.  Oh,  must  I  die 
alone  at  last  ?  " 

No,  not  alone ;  for,  crouched  upon  the  hearth- 
stone, there  sat  a  human  form.  It  was  the  figure  of 
a  man — a  dark,  hard-featured  man  ;  and  often,  as 
the  wailing  cry  came  from  the  humble  bed,  it  bowed 
its  head  upon  its  hands  and  wept.  Carefully,  stealth- 
ily through  the  door  it  had  come  while  Mr. 
Warren  slept,  and  the  deep  black  eyes,  which 
glowed  at  first  like  coals  of  living  fire,  grew  dim 
with  tears  as,  glancing  hurriedly  around  the  room, 
they  saw  how  poor  it  was. 

"  Isn't  there  somebody  here  with  me  ? "  the  sick 
man  said  at  last,  as  his  quick  ear  caught  the  sound 
of  breathing.  "Speak,  isn't  there  somebody  here?" 
he  continued,  while  the  figure  on  the  hearthstone 
glided  noiselessly  to  the  bedside,  where  it  stood 
erect,  gazing  pitifully  upon  the  white,  worn  face 
which,  with  the  lamp-light  shining  on  it?  seemed  of 
a  deathly  hue. 


83 


THE  HEARTHSTONE. 


It  was  a  strange  sight,  that  statue  standing 
there  so  silently,  and  that  blind  old  man  trying 
in  vain  to  penetrate  the  darkness  and  learn  who  it 
was  that  stood  there  beside  him. ,  Raising  himself 
at  last  in  bed,  and  stretching  out  his  arm,  he  touched 
a  hand  colder  even  than  his  own,  for  guilt  and  fear 
had  chilled  the  blood  of  him  who  remained  immov- 
able, while  the  trembling  fingers  passed  nervously 
over  the  face,  through  the  hair,  down  the  side,  until 
they  reached  the  left  hand,  from  whose  fore-finger  a 
joint  was  gone.  That  missing  joint,  though  we 
have  made  no  mention  of  it  heretofore,  was  well 
remembered  by  Hugo  Warren,  and  it  needed  but 
this  proof  to  tell  him  who  was  there. 

"William  Huntington,"  he  hoarsely  whispered, 
and  falling  back  upon  his  pillow,  he  wiped  the 
drops  of  perspiration  from  his  face,  for  the  presence 
of  that  man,  coming  to  him  thus,  awakened  all  the 
bitter  memories  of  the  past.  "  William  Hunting- 
ton," he  gasped,  "  why  are  you  here  on  this  night 
of  all  others,  when  my  lost  wife  seems  present  with 
me,  and  my  ruined  hopes  pass  in  sad  review  before 
my  mind.  Say,  have  you  come  to  add  the  last  drop 
in  the  brimming  bucket  ?" 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then,  falling 


THE  HEARTHSTONE. 


87 


upon  his  knees,  William  Huntington  made  answer 
to  the  man  he  had  so  wronged. 

"  I  did  not  come  to  insult  you,  but  rather  to  seek 
the  forgiveness  which  I  know  I  do  not  merit.  Only 
say  that  you  forgive  me,  Mr.  Warren — let  me  once 
hold  your  hand  in  token  of  reconciliation,  and  then 
do  with  me  what  you  will.  A  life  within  a  felon's 
cell  is  preferable  far,  to  the  remorse  which  I  have 
carried  with  me  for  two  long,  dreary  years.  Say, 
will  you  not  forgive  me?"  he  continued,  and  the 
strong  man's  voice  was  choked  with  tears. 

"Forgive  you,  .William,"  Mr.  Warren  replied, 
"  I  might  perhaps  forgive  you,  were  my  fortune  all 
you  wrested  from  me,  but  when  I  think  of  my  lost 
Helen,  my  heart  is  turned  to  steel,  for  you  killed 
her,  William  Huntington — you  killed  my  precious 
wife." 

"  Yes,  yes,  it  was  my  base  act  which  killed  her, 
it  is  true,  still  I  have  made  you  some  amends.  I 
saved  your  daughter's  life,  you  know,  else  I  had 
never  dared  to  seek  your  face  again,"  said  Mr. 
Huntington,  interrupting  him. 

"  You  saved  Alice's  life  ? "  the  excited  man 
rejoined,  and  the  hand  which  had  withdrawn  itself 
beneath  the  bed-clothes  now  came  forth  again,  feel- 
ing eagerly  for  the  bowed  head,  on  which  it  rested 


83 


THE  HEARTHSTONE. 


forgivingly,  while  he  continued,  u  It  was  you,  then 
who  took  her  from  the  river,  and  laid  her  in  my 
arms — you  who  saved  me  from  a  darker  night  than 
any  I  have  ever  known.  Yes,  William,  because  you 
did  this  good  to  me,  you  are  forgiven,  fully,  freely 
forgiven — but  why  have  you  not  told  of  it  before  ? 
Where  have  you  been,  and  did  your  family  know 
aught  of  this?  " 

"  My  family  know  aught  of  this?  "  repeated  Mr. 
Huntington.  "  Can  it  be  I  am  deceived  ? "  and 
then,  with  the  shaking  hand  still  resting  on  his 
head,  he  told  how  he  had  wandered  far  and  wide, 
seeking  rest  and  finding  none,  for  ever  present  to 
his  mind  was  a  white-haired,  sightless  man,  weeping, 
o'er  his  pale,  dead  wife. 

In  the  far  off  California  land  he  had  dug  for 
gold,  vainly  hoping  by  this  means  some  time  to 
make  amends  for  the  ruin  he  had  wrought.  At  last, 
as  the  burden  of  remorse  grew  heavier  to  bear,  he 
sought  his  home  to  see  once  more  the  faces  of  his 
wife  and  child,  hoping,  too,  that  the  forgiveness  he 
so  much  desired  might  be  obtained. 

"  I  found  them  here,"  said  he — "found  my  wife 
and  Adelaide  working  hard  and  secretly,  lest  the 
world  should  know  how  poor  they  were.  I  met  my 
daughter  first,  and  Heaven  forgive  me  if  I  do  her 


THE  HEARTHSTONE. 


89 


wrong,  I  thought  she  was  not  glad  to  see  me.  I 
questioned  her  of  you,  and  learned  that  you  were 
here,  too,  and  very  poor.  You  were  fully  deter- 
mined, she  said,  to  revenge  yourself  on  me  should  I 
ever  be  found,  and  she  urged  me  not  to  let  my 
presence  here  be  known,  until  she  had  tried  to  pro- 
cure for  me  your  forgiveness.  My  wife  did  not 
seem  to  understand  your  feelings,  for  she  had  never 
seen  you,  and  she  wished  me  to  remain  ;  but  my 
daughter's  fears  and  my  own  dread  of  a  convict's 
fate  prevailed,  and  trusting  to  Adelaide's  promise 
that  she  would  eventually  obtain  your  pardon  for 
me,  I  left  them  again  and  became  a  second  time  a 
wanderer.  I  intended  to  take  the  cars  at  West 
Oakland,  and  was  following  the  course  of  the  river, 
when,  pausing  for  a  moment  to  rest,  I  saw  you 
approaching,  and  hid  behind  the  alders,  one  mo- 
ment resolving  to  throw  myself  at  your  feet,  and 
again  fearing  to  do  so,  for  guilt  had  made  me 
cowardly  and  weak.  The  rest  of  that  day's  inci- 
dents you  know.  I  saved  your  daughter's  life,  but  I 
dared  not  speak,  lest  I  should  be  betrayed.  My 
wet  clothes  made  it  necessary  for  me  to  return  to 
the  house,  where  1  told  what  I  had  done,  and  asked 
if  this  would  not  atone-  My  wife  said  yes,  but 
Adelaide  was  fearful  still.    She  would  see  you  her- 


90 


THE  HEARTHSTONE. 


self,  she  said,  and  she  did  see  you  that  very  day,  but 
you  refused.  'The  law  must  take  its  course,' you 
said,  '  even  though  I  saved  a  hundred  lives.'  " 

"  Never  !  so  help  me  Heaven  !  "  Mr.  Warren 
exclaimed.  "  Such  words  as  those  never  passed  my 
lips,  and  till  this  moment  I  knew  not  who  it  was 
that  saved  my  child.  Forgive  me,  William,  but  she 
lied,  that  girl  Adelaide.  There  was  treachery  in  her 
voice  when  she  sat  at  my  feet  and  asked  me  not  to 
tell  of  your  misdeeds,  lest  disgrace  should  fall  on 
her.  People  thought  her  mother  was  a  widow,  she 
said,  and  she  would  rather  they  should  not  know 
that  you  ran  away  to  escape  a  prison  home." 

"Oh,  Adelaide,  my  child,  my  child,  why  did  you 
thus  deceive  me  ? "  the  wretched  father  groaned, 
while  Mr.  Warren  continued  : 

"I  never  tried  to  find  you,  William,  or  sought  to 
do  you  harm;  but  go  on  and  tell  me  where  you  have 
been  since  that  time." 

"  I  remained  at  home  a  day  or  two,  hiding  from 
the  sight  of  men,"  Mr.  Huntington  replied,  "and 
then  one  night  I  went  away,  thinking  to  make  for 
my  family  a  home  in  the  distant  West,  where  you 
would  never  find  me.  But  no  spot  could  be  home 
to  me  with  that  load  upon  my  mind,  so  at  last  I 
determined  to  see  you  myself,  and  beg  for  your  for- 


THE  HEARTHSTONE.  91 


giveness.  They  think  me  far  away,  my  wife  and 
Adelaide,  for  I  only  paused  a  moment  at  their  door. 
Looking  through  the  half-closed  blind  I  saw  your 
daughter  there,  and  knowing  that  you  must  be 
alone  I  hastened  on,  entering  your  dwelling  while 
you  vslept,  and  now  it  remains  for  you  to  do  with 
me  what  you  will." 

"  Nothing,  William,  I  shall  do  nothing— only 
raise  me  up,  my  breath  is  going  from  me,"  Mr. 
Warren  gasped. 

The  faintness  he  had  experienced  once  before 
had  returned  again,  brought  on  by  the  excitement 
of  what  he  had  heard,  and  Mr.  Huntington,  when 
he  saw  the  corpse-like  pallor  stealing  over  his  face, 
feared  that  he  was  dying.  He  was  not  afraid  of 
death,  but  the  world,  he  knew,  was  a  suspicious  one, 
and  he  would  rather  the  man  he  had  so  wronged 
should  not  die  alone  with  him.  Just  then  he  heard 
without,  a  footstep  coming  near,  and  thinking  it 
must  be  Alice,  he  hurried  to  the  door,  exclaiming  : 

"  Be  quick  !  your  father,  1  fear,  is  dying  !  " 

In  a  moment  the  person  thus  addressed  stood  at 
Mr.  Warren's  bedside,  and  when  the  fainting  man 
came  back  to  consciousness  he  whispered  softly  : 

"  God  bless  you,  Mr.  Howland,  for  coming  here 
again." 


1/3 


THE  HEARTHSTONE. 


It  was  Richard  Howland  who  stocd  there  side 
by  side  with  one  whom  he  readily  recognized  as  the 
stranger  who  had  saved  the  life  of  Alice  Warren. 
He  had  started  for  the  party,  going  through  the 
hollow  as  the  shortest  route,  and  was  passing  Mr. 
Warren's  gate,  when  the  words,  "  Be  quick  !  your 
father,  I  fear,  is  dying,"  arrested  his  attention, 
bringing  him  at  once  into  the  presence  of  the  blind 
man  whom  he  had  so  long  neglected. 

"  I  did  not  know  you  were  so  ill,"  he  was  about 
to  say,  when  Alice  entered  the  room. 

"  Father,"  she  cried,  bounding  to  his  side,  "  are 
you  worse? "and  then,  as  her  eyes  fell  upon  Mr. 
Huntington,  the  hot  blood  stained  her  face  and 
neck,  for  she  knew  who  he  was,  and  marveled  much 
that  he  was  there. 

"Alice,"  said  Mr.  Warren,  "I  have  forgiven 
William  Huntington  because  he  saved  your  life, 
though  he  dared  not  let  us  know  it  then,  for  Ade- 
laide had  said  I  thirsted  for  revenge.  He  has  suf- 
fered much,  my  child,  and  you,  I  am  sure,  will  sanc- 
tion my  forgiveness." 

It  was  in  vain  that  Alice  attempted  to  speak, 
so  astonished  was  she  at  what  she  had  heard,  and, 
misinterpreting  her  silence,  Mr.  Huntington  ad- 
vanced toward  her,  saying,  imploringly: 


THE  HEARTHSTONE. 


93 


"  Hear,  me,  young  lady,  and  you  will  perhaps  be 
willing  to  forgive." 

Then  very  rapidly  he  repeated  in  substance  the 
story  he  had  told  her  father,  touching  as  lightly  as 
possible  on  Adelaide's  duplicity,  but  still  making 
the  matter  plain  to  Alice  and  clear  to  him,  who, 
with  clasped  hands  and  wildly  beating  heart,  list- 
ened breathlessly  to  the  strange  tale  he  heard. 
Richard  Howland  was  undeceived  at  last,  and  the 
girl  he  had  almost  loved  was  revealed  to  him  in  her 
true  character,  as  an  artful,  designing  woman.  The 
father,  who  he  supposed  was  dead,  stood  there,  a 
living,  breathing  man,  identical,  he  was  sure,  with 
the  agent  of  whom  he  had  often  heard,  and,  worse 
than  all,  the  people  against  whom  she  had  breathed 
her  dark  insinuations,  were  innocent  of  evil  ;  the 
wrong  was  on  the  other  side,  and  he  had  been  her 
dupe ;  had  even  thought  it  possible  to  call  that  girl 
his  wife.  His  wife !  how  he  loathed  the  very  idea 
now  that  he  knew  her  guilt,  and  how  his  conscience 
smote  him  for  having  ever  wronged  in  thought  the 
helpless  old  blind  man  and  his  gentle,  fair-haired 
daughter.  They  had  suffered,  too,  from  his  neglect, 
but  he  could  make  amends  for  that,  and  his  heart 
went  out  in  pity  toward  Alice  as  he  contrasted  her 
former  life  with  her  present  dreary  lot.    The  party 


94 


THE  HEARTHSTONE. 


was  forgotten,  and  while  Adelaide,  in  a  most  im* 
patient  mood,  watched  each  fresh  arrival,  he,  for 
whom  she  watched  in  vain,  smoothed  the  tumbled 
pillow,  bathed  the  burning  brow,  or  brought  the 
cooling  draught,  and  then  spoke  words  of  comfort 
to  the  weeping  Alice,  who  read  upon  his  face,  and 
that  of  Mr.  Huntington,  a  confirmation  of  her  fears. 

But  not  that  night  did  Mr.  Warren  die,  though 
the  physician,  for  whom  Mr.  Huntington  was  sent, 
would  give  no  hope.  The  disease  had  assumed  a 
most  alarming  form,  he  said,  and  Mr.  Howland's 
hand  rested  pityingly  on  the  bowed  head  of  the 
young  girl  who  was  soon  to  be  an  orphan.  The 
morning  came,  and  then,  as  it  was  necessary  for 
him  to  go  home  for  a  time,  he  left  both  father  and 
child  to  the  care  of  Mr.  Huntington,  promising  to 
send  down  one  of  his  domestics,  and  to  return  him- 
self ere  long. 


REVELATIONS. 


95 


CHAPTER  X. 

REVELATIONS. 

HE  morning  train  from  Albany  had  thun 
dered  through  the  town,  and  Mr.  How- 
land  was  about  returning  to  the  hollow, 
when  hasty  footsteps  were  heard  in  the 
hall,  and  in  a  moment  his  sister  stood  before  him. 
She  had  traveled  night  and  day  since  leaving 
Milwaukee,  she  said,  but  she  didn't  mind  it  at  all, 
she  was  so  impatient  to  be  at  home  and  tell  him 
what  she  had  heard,  and,  without  so  much  as  unty- 
ing her  bonnet,  Miss  Elinor  continued: 

h  I  told  you  all  the  time  they  were  impostors — 
but  men  have  so  little  sense.  I'm  glad  I  ain't  a 
man,  though  if  I  were,  no  woman  would  ever 
impose  on  me  as  that  Adelaide  has  on  you.  Why, 
instead  of  taking  music  lessons,  as  she  pretends  to 
do,  she  goes  to  Springfield  after  work,  and  the 
satchel  you  more  than  once  carried  for  her,  had  in 
it  vests  and  shirts,  and  mercy  knows  what — tell  me 


96 


REVELATIONS. 


that  wasn't  a  wristband  I  saw  under  the  lounge. 
I  guess  I  know  a  wristband.  They  are  just  as  poor 
as  they  can  be,  and  sew  for  Mr.  Lincoln's  store  in 
Springfield,  for  Mrs.  Lincoln's  cousin  told  me  so. 
I  met  her  in  Milwaukee,  and  when  she  knew  I  was 
from  Oakland,  she  spoke  of  Adelaide,  and  asked 
me  if  I  knew  her.  I  told  her  yes,  and  then  she 
asked  if  she  were  married  yet,  saying  she  hoped  she 
was,  for  it  seemed  a  pity  that  a  stylish-looking  girl 
like  her  should  be  obliged  to  sew  for  a  living.  Of 
course  I  questioned  her,  learning  what  I've  told 
you,  and,  worse  than  all  the  rest,  Adelaide  made 
this  lady  believe  that  she  was  going  to  marry  a  very 
wealthy  man,  who  had  a  most  delightful  home,  with 
one  incumbrance,  which  she  should  soon  manage  to 
dispose  of,  and  that  incumbrance  wTas  a  dried-up 
old  maid  sister  !  Do  you  hear  that,  Richard  How- 
land  ?  A  dried-up  old  maid  sister.  That  means 
me !"  and  the  highly  scandalized  lady  walked  up 
and  down  the  room,  upsetting,  in  her  wrath,  both 
her  traveling  basket  and  band-box,  which  last  in  a 
measure  diverted  her  attention,  for  no  woman, 
whether  married  or  single,  can  think  of  anything 
else  when  her  "best  bonnet"  is  in  danger. 

Picking  up  the  box,  and  assuring  herself  that  its 
5r  ients  were  unharmed,  she  continued: 


REVELATIONS. 


97 


"  Why  don't  you  say  something,  Richard  ?  Are 
you  not  surprised  at  what  I  have  told  you?" 

"  Not  particularly,"  he  answered,  and  coming  to 
her  side  he  repeated  to  her  the  story  he  had  heard 
from  Adelaide's  own  father,  so  long  supposed  to  be 
dead. 

"The  trollop  !  the  jade  !"  ejaculated  Miss  Elinor. 
"I  understand  her  perfectly.  She  wished  to  keep 
up  appearances,  and  make  her  father  stay  away 
until  she  became  your  wife,  and  you  couldn't  help 
yourself.  Dried-up  old  maid,  indeed  !  I'll  teach 
her  to  call  me  names.  But  what  of  Mr.  Warren 
and  little  Alice  ?  I'll  go  to  them  at  once,"  and  not- 
withstanding her  recent  fatiguing  journey,  the  en- 
ergetic woman  started  for  the  hollow,  saying  to  her 
brother,  who  accompanied  her,  "  I  am  determined 
upon  one  thing,  Richard.  If  Mr.  Warren  dies, 
Alice  will  live  with  us  and  have  the  best  chamber, 
too.  Poor  little  creature,  how  she  must  have 
suffered." 

They  found  both  Mr.  Warren  and  Alice  asleep, 
but  Miss  Elinor's  kiss  av/oke  the  latter,  who  uttered 
a  cry  of  joy  at  the  sight  of  her  friend  and  benefac- 
tress. The  sick  man,  too,  ere  long,  awoke,  but 
only  to  doze  again,  and  as  the  day  wore  on  he  con- 
tinued in  a  state  of  stupor,  from  which  it  was  diffi- 
5 


98 


REVELATIONS. 


cult  to  rouse  him.  Just  before  the  sun  was  setting, 
however,  consciousness  returned,  and  he  asked  for 
Alice,  who  in  a  moment  was  at  his  side.  Winding 
his  arm  lovingly  around  her  neck,  he  prayed  that 
the  God  of  the  fatherless  would  not  forsake  her 
when  she  should  be  alone. 

"I  am  going  from  you,  Alice,''  he  said,  "  going 
to  your  mother,  who  has  waited  for  me  all  day,  and 
the  pain  of  death  would  scarce  be  felt  did  I  know 
what  would  become  of  you." 

"Tell  him,  Richard,"  whispered  Miss  Elinor, 
and  advancing  to  the  bed-side,  Mr.  Howland  said  : 

"Your  daughter  shall  live  with  me  when  you 
are  gone." 

"  God  bless  you,"  came  feebly  from  the  dying 
man,  while  the  fair  head  resting  on  his  bosom  was 
a  moment  uplifted,  and  Mr.  Howland  never  forgot 
the  grateful,  glad  expression  of  the  soft  blue  eyes 
which  looked  into  his  face. 

"  I,  too,  win  care  for  Alice  so  long  as  my  life  is 
spared,"  said  Mr.  Huntington,  who  had  been  there 
all  the  day,  and  again  from  the  white  lips  a  faint 
"  God  bless  you  "  came. 

Slowly  toward  the  western  horizon  sank  the 
setting  sun,  and  when  at  last  his  farewell  beams 
looked  into  that  room  of  death,  they  shone  on  the 


REVELATIONS. 


99 


frosty  hair  and  still  white  face  of  one  who  was  no 
longer  blind,  for  to  him  the  light  of  a  better  world 
had  been  revealed,  and  the  eyes  so  long  in  darkness 
here  were  opened  to  the  glories  of  the  New 
Jerusalem. 

Every  necessary  care  was  bestowed  upon  the 
dead,  and  then,  leaving  the  orphaned  Alice  in  Miss 
Elinor's  arms,  with  Mr.  Howland  standing  near  and 
speaking  to  her  an  occasional  word  of  comfort, 
Mr.  Huntington  started  for  his  home,  walking 
slowly,  sadly  ;  for  his  heart  was  full  of  sorrow — 
sorrow  for  the  dead  and  sorrow  for  his  only  child, 
who  had  so  cruelly  deceived  him.  What  her  motive 
was  he  could  not  guess,  unless  it  were  that  she 
dreaded  the  disgrace  his  presence  might  bring  upon 
her,  and  when  he  thought  of  this,  he  half  resolved 
to  leave  her  forever,  but  love  for  his  wife  prevailed, 
and  with  an  aching  heart  he  kept  on  his  way. 


Restless  and  impatient  Adelaide  had  passed  the 
day  in  wondering  what  had  happened  to  Mr.  How- 
land,  and  why  he  was  not  at  the  party.  She  had 
confidently  expected  him  there,  but  he  had  disap- 
pointed her,  and  the  lace  dress  with  which  she 
hoped  to  impress  him  was  worn  for  naught. 

"  Parties  were  bores,  anyway,"  she  said,  "  and 


100 


BEVELAT10N8. 


she  hoped  she  should  never  attend  another  so  long 
as  her  name  was  Adelaide  Huntington. " 

In  this  unamiable  mood  she  fretted  until  late  in 
the  afternoon,  when  old  Peggy,  who  had  been  sent 
on  an  errand  to  the  village,  returned,  bringing  the 
news  that  Mr.  Warren  was  not  expected  to  live, 
and  that  she  saw  Mr.  Howland  entering  the  door  as 
she  passed.  Then  lowering  her  voice  to  a  whisper, 
she  continued  : 

"  Right  up  against  the  window  was  a  man's 
head,  which  looked  so  like  your  father  that  I  stop- 
ped a  little,  hoping  he  would  turn  his  face  one  side, 
bul  he  didn't,  and  I  came  along." 

"  My  father,"  repeated  Adelaide,  "  isn't  within  a 
hundred  miles  of  here." 

Still  the  idea  troubled  her  even  more  than  the 
news  of  Mr.  Warren's  illness,  and  after  old  Peggy 
left  the  room,  she  turned  to  her  mother  saying  : 

"  Wouldn't  it  be  mean  if  father  had  come  back 
and  gone  to  see  Mr.  Warren  ?" 

"  I  suppose  it  would  be  right,  though,"  returned 
her  mother,  wThile  Adelaide  continued  : 

••'  Right  or  wrong,  nobody  wants  him  turning  up 
bodily  just  yet,  for  Mr.  Howland  is  so  squeamish 
about  a  little  deception  that  any  chance  of  winning 
him  would  be  rather  slim,  if  he  knew  father  was  not 


REVELATIONS. 


101 


dead  as  he  believes  him  to  be.  If  I  secure  him  be- 
fore he  finds  it  out,  he  can't  help  himself,  and  I 
wish  he'd  either  propose  or  let  it  alone.  I  declare, 
mother,  I  think  it  is  your  duty  as  a  prudent,  careful 
parent  to  ask  what  his  intentions  are.  You  can  tell 
him  there  is  a  great  deal  of  talk  about  his  coming 
here  so  much,  and  unless  he  is  serious,  you  prefer 
that  he  should  discontinue  his  visits,  hinting,  of 
course,  that  you  fear  my  affections  are  already  too 
deeply  enlisted  for  my  future  happiness  should  he 
not  be  in  earnest.  Say,  mother,  will  you  tell  him 
this  when  he  comes  again?  " 

Mrs.  Huntington  at  first  refused,  but  Adelaide's 
entreaties  finally  prevailed,  and  it  was  decided  that 
when  Mr.  Howland  next  visited  them  he  should  be 
questioned  concerning  his  intentions. 

"  Oh,  I  hope  he'll  come  to-night/'  said  Adelaide, 
and  feeling  confident  that  he  would,  she  made  some 
changes  in  her  dress,  smoothed  her  glossy  hair,  and 
then,  just  as  it  was  growing  dark,  lay  down  upon 
the  lounge,  building  castles  of  the  future,  and 
wondering  if  she  should  be  Adelaide  Huntington 
one  year  from  that  day. 

As  she  lay  thus,  she  heard  the  gate  open  and 
shut — a  heavy  footstep  was  coming  up  the  walk, 
and  thinking  it  must  be  Mr.  Howland  she  assumed 


REVELATIONS. 


a  half  reclining  posture,  which  she  fancied  was 
careless  and  graceful,  and  then  awaited  the  appear- 
ance of  her  expected  visitor.  He  did  not  ring,  and 
she  heard  his  step  in  the  hall.  Nearer  and  nearer 
he  came,  his  hand  was  on  the  knob,  and  as  the  door 
swung  back  the  large  black  eyes,  which  turned  at 
first  so  eagerly  in  ^that  direction,  flashed  their  sur- 
prise and  anger,  not  on  Richard  Howland,  but  on 
William  Huntington,  who  keenly  felt  the  coldness 
of  his  welcome. 

i  Father,"  she  exclaimed,  "  where  did  you  come 
from  ?" 

"I  came  from  Mr.  Warren's/'  he  answered.  "  He 
is  dead,  but  I  have  been  forgiven,  and  can  once 
more  walk  the  earth  a  free  and  fearless  man. 
Adelaide,"  he  continued,  and  in  the  tone  of  his 
voice  and  gleam  of  his  eye  there  was  something 
which  made  the  guilty  girl  tremble,  "  I  have  heard 
that  of  you  which  fills  me  with  grief.  Oh,  my 
child,  how  could  you  so  shamefully  deceive  me  ?" 

"  What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked,  in  well 
feigned  surprise,  for  she  would  not  admit  anything 
until  she  knew  how  far  she  was  implicated. 

Very  briefly  her  father  repeated  to  her  what  he 
had  heard  from  Mr.  Warren,  and  then  awaited  her 
answer.    At  first  she  thought  to  deny  the  charge, 


REVELATION'S. 


103 


but  she  dared  not  give  the  lie  to  one  then  lying 
dead  not  far  away,  so  she  remained  silent,  trying  in 
vain  to  frame  some  excuse  with  which  to  appease 
her  father,  and  also  to  find  some  way  of  again  bind- 
ing Alice  to  secrecy,  so  that  Mr.  Howland  should 
never  hear  of  her  falsehoods.  He  would,  perhaps, 
excuse  her  deception  with  regard  to  her  father 
when  she  told  him,  as  she  should  do,  that  she  had 
done  it  for  the  sake  of  her  mother,  who  could  not 
endure  to  have  the  matter  known,  and  if  the  rest 
were  kept  from  him,  all  might  yet  end  well. 

At  that  moment  she  remembered  what  Peggy 
had  said,  and  with  a  faint  voice  she  asked : 

"Does  any  one  know  this  but  yourself? " 

"  Mr.  Warren's  daughter  knows  it/'  he  returned. 
"And  the  young  man — Howland  is  his  name — 
knows  it,  too,  for  he  was  there  all  night  and  heard 
my  conversation  with  Alice." 

"  Mr.  Howland  !  "  Adelaide  fairly  screamed,  and 
in  the  terrified  expression  of  her  face  the  motive  for 
her  conduct  was  revealed  to  her  father,  who  rather 
enjoyed  than  otherwise  the  passionate  tears  of 
anger  and  mortification  which  she  shed  at  finding 
herself  thus  betrayed  to  one  whom  she  had  loved  as 
well  as  such  as  she  could  love. 

"I  understand  you  perfectly/'  said  Mr.  Hunting- 


104 


BE  VELA  Tl  ONS. 


ton,  advancing  toward  her  as  she  lay  weeping  on 
the  lounge,  "  and  your  punishment  is  just;  for  a 
child  who  can  abuse  its  father  as  you  have  abused 
me,  ought  never  to  be  the  wife  of  a  man  like  Mr. 
Howland.  I  will  not  reproach  you  further  with 
your  guilt,"  he  continued,  "  for  your  sin  has  found 
you  out,  and  I  leave  you  to  your  own  reflections/' 

So  saying,  he  passed  on  in  quest  of  his  wife, 
whose  welcome  to  the  repentant  man  was  far  more 
cordial  than  that  of  his  daughter  had  been. 

Adelaide  was,  indeed,  sorely  punished,  for  all 
hope  of  winning  Mr.  Howland  was  gone,  and,  as 
the  days  wore  on,  she  experienced  more  and  more 
that  the  way  of  the  transgressor  is  hard. 

The  story  of  Mr.  Huntington's  existence  and  re- 
turn to  his  family  circulated  rapidly,  and  with  it, 
hand  in  hand,  went  the  rumor  of  the  wrong  he  had 
once  done  to  the  blind  man,  who  by  the  people  of 
Oakland  was  honored  more  in  death  than  he  had 
been  in  life,  for  they  came  in  crowds  to  his  funeral, 
gazing  pityingly  at  the  white  face  of  the  dead,  and 
then  staring  curiously  at  the  dark-browed  stranger 
who  was  said  to  be  William  Huntington.  Adelaide 
was  not  there,  for  Miss  Elinor,  a  little  given  to 
gossip,  it  may  be,  had  kindly  remembered  her,  and 
numerous  were  the  exaggerated  stories  afloat  con- 


REVELATIONS. 


105 


cerning  the  deception  she  had  practiced  both  upon 
her  father  and  the  villagers.  Like  most  people  she 
had  one  so-called  friend  who  dutifully  kept  her  in- 
formed with  regard  to  all  that  was  said  concerning 
her,  and  completely  overwhelmed  with  shame  and 
mortification,  she  resolved  to  keep  herself  secluded 
at  home,  where  she  vented  her  disappointment  in 
harsh  language  and  bitter  tears,  particularly  when, 
on  the  day  succeeding  the  funeral,  she  heard  that 
Miss  Elinor  had  taken  Alice  to  live  with  her. 

But  little  did  Miss  Elinor  care  for  her  anger 
The  world  to  her  was  brighter  now  than  it  had  been 
for  many  years,  and  with  something  of  a  mother's 
love,  her  heart  went  out  toward  the  orphan  to  whom 
she  had  given  a  home.  Adelaide,  however,  was  not 
forgotten,  and  the  good  lady  was  certainly  ex- 
cusable if,  when  riding  with  her  protege,  she  did 
frequently  order  Jim  to  take  them  round  to  High 
Street,  bidding  him  drive  slowly  past  the  house  of 
the  Huntingtons.  But  if  in  this  way  she  thought  to 
obtain  a  glimpse  of  Adelaide,  she  was  mistaken,  for 
the  young  lady  was  never  visible,  though,  safely 
hidden  behind  the  curtain,  she  herself  seldom  failed 
to  see  the  carriage  and  the  little  figure  in  black, 
who  she  instinctively  felt  would  some  day  be  her 
rival. 

5* 


106 


REVELATIONS. 


The  bitterest  drop  of  all  in  Adelaide's  cup  of 
mortification  was  the  knowledge  that  Mr.  Howland 
had  once  thought  to  make  her  his  wife,  for  he  told 
her  so  in  a  letter  written  three  weeks  subsequent  to 
Mr.  Warren's  death.  It  is  true  he  had  never  com- 
mitted himself  by  words,  but  he  had  done  so  by 
actions,  and  honor  demanded  an  explanation.  So 
he  wrote  at  last,  and  though  it  was  a  most  polite 
and  gentlemanly  note,  its  contents  stung  her  to  her 
inmost  soul,  and  casting  it  into  the  fire  she  watched 
it  as  it  turned  to  ashes,  feeling  the  while  as  if  her 
own  heart  were  charred  and  blistered  with  its  load 
of  guilt  and  shame.  There  were  no  more  trips  to 
Springfield  know,  for  concealment  of  labor  was  no 
longer  necessary,  and  the  satchel  Miss  Elinor 
taunted  her  brother  with  having  carried  so  often, 
lay  useless  upon  the  closet  shelf. 

"  I'll  die  before  I'll  do  that — father  may  support 
us,"  Adelaide  had  said  when  her  mother  suggested 
that  they  take  in  sewing  from  Mr.  Howland's  store. 

And  Mr.  Huntington  did  do  his  best  toward 
maintaining  his  family,  but  popular  opinion  was 
against  him.  He  had  defrauded  his  employer  once 
— he  might  do  so  again — and  so  all  looked  upon 
him  with  distrust,  making  it  sometimes  very  hard 
for  him  to  procure  even  the  common  necessaries  of 


BE  VELA  Tl  0N8, 


107 


life.  His  health,  too,  had  become  impaired,  both 
by  exposure  and  the  mental  anguish  he  had  so  long 
endured,  and  night  after  night  his  labored  breath- 
ing and  hacking  cough  smote  painfully  on  the  ear 
of  his  wife,  whose  love  no  circumstances  could 
destroy. 

One  morning,  toward  the  middle  of  February, 
he  left  them  as  usual,  but  he  was  soon  brought 
back  with  a  broken  limb,  which  he  had  received 
from  a  fall  upon  the  ice.  For  him  to  work  was  now 
impossible,  and  Adelaide  no  longer  objected  when 
her  mother  proposed  that  Peggy  should  be  sent  for 
sewing  to  Mr.  Howland,  who  gave  it  to  her  readily, 
manifesting  much  concern  for  Mr.  Huntington, 
whom  Peggy  represented  as  being  in  a  most  de- 
plorable condition. 

Two  or  three  days  afterward,  as  he  was  leaving 
the  store,  he  received  a  message  from  the  sick  man, 
who  wished  to  see  him,  and  in  a  short  time  he  stood 
at  the  bedside  of  Mr.  Huntington,  who  told,  in  a 
few  words,  why  he  had  been  sent  for. 

They  could  not  keep  that  house — they  must 
rent  a  cheaper  one,  and  if  no  tenant  for  the  brown 
house  in  the  hollow  had  been  obtained,  would  Mr. 
Howland  let  him  have  it?  He  would  try  hard 
when  he  got  well  to  pay  the  rent,  and  the  strong 


108 


REVELATIONS. 


man's  eyes  filled  with  tears,  just  as  little  Alice 
Warren's  had  done  when  words  similar  to  these 
escaped  her  lips. 

Yes,  he  could  have  it,  Mr.  Howland  said,  and 
the  sum  he  asked  for  it  was  just  what  Mr.  Warren 
had  paid  ;  then  fearing  lest  Adelaide  by  chance 
should  enter  the  room,  he  hastened  away,  pondering 
upon  the  changes  which  a  few  short  weeks  had 
brought  to  the  haughty  girl,  who,  when  she  heard 
of  her  father's  arrangement,  flew  into  a  violent  rage, 
declaring  she  would  kill  herself  before  she'd  live 
in  that  little  shanty. 

But  neither  her  wrath  nor  her  tears  could  shake 
her  father's  determination,  and  when  the  first  April 
sun  had  set,  and  the  warm  spring  moon  had  risen, 
wretched,  hopeless  and  weary,  Adelaide  Huntington 
crept  up  to  her  bed  beneath  the  rafters,  covering 
her  head  with  the  sheet,  lest  she  should  see  the 
white-haired,  sightless  specter,  which,  to  her  dis- 
ordered fancy,  seemed  haunting  that  low-roofed 
dwelling. 


NATURAL    CONSEQUENCES.  109 


CHAPTER  XI. 

NATURAL  CONSEQUENCES. 

T  is  summer  again — "the  leafy  month  of 
June  " — and  in  the  spacious,  well-kept 
grounds  of  Richard  Howland  hundreds 
of  roses  are  blossoming,  but  none  so  fair 
and  beautiful  to  the  owner  of  these  grounds  as  the 
rose  which  blossoms  within  the  house — the  bright- 
haired,  gentle  Alice,  who,  when  the  grief-laden 
clouds  of  adversity  were  overshadowing  her  life,  did 
not  dream  that  she  could  ever  be  as  happy  as  she 
is  in  her  new  home.  The  grass-grown  grave  in  the 
quiet  valley  is  not  neglected,  nor  he  who  rests  there 
forgotten,  but  though  her  tears  fall  often  on  the 
sod,  she  cannot  wish  the  blind  man  back  in  a  world 
which  was  so  truly  dark  to  him. 

And  Alice  has  learned  to  be  happy  in  her  luxu- 
rious home — happy  in  the  tender  love  which  Miss 
Elinor  ever  lavishes  upon  her,  and  happy,  too,  in 
the  quiet  brother-like  affection  of  him  who  seems 


110  NATURAL  CONSEQUENCES. 


to  her  the  embodiment  of  every  manly  virtue.  He 
does  not  talk  often  with  her,  for  Richard  Howland 
deals  not  so  much  in  words  as  deeds,  but  in  a 
thousand  little  ways  he  tells  her  he  is  glad  to  have 
her  there.  And  this  is  all  he  tells  her,  so  that 
neither  she  nor  his  more  discerning  sister  dream 
how  sweet  to  him  is  the  music  of  the  childish  voice, 
which  often  in  the  gathering  twilight  sings  some 
song  of  the  olden  time  ;  nor  do  they  know,  when 
returning  home  at  night,  how  wistfully  he  glances 
toward  the  window  where  Alice  is  wont  to  sit,  and 
if  they  did  know  it,  they  could  not  fathom  his 
meaning,  for  when  the  golden  hair  and  bright 
young  face  is  there,  he  always  turns  aside,  linger- 
ing without,  as  if  within  there  were  no  maiden  fair, 
whose  eyes  of  blue  played  wilder  notes  upon  his 
heart-strings  than  the  dark,  proud  orbs  of  Adelaide 
had  ever  done.  Even  he  does  not  know  he  loves 
her,  so  quietly  that  love  has  come — creeping  over 
him  while  he  slept — stealing  over  him  when  he 
woke — whispering  to  him  in  the  dingy  counting- 
room,  and  bidding  him  cast  frequent  glances  at  the 
western  sky,  to  see  if  it  were  not  time  that  he  were 
home.  He  only  knows  that  he  is  very  happy,  and 
that  his  happiness  is  in  some  way  connected  with 
the  childish  form  which  flits  before  him  like  a  sun- 


NATURAL    CONSEQUENCES.  Ill 


beam,  filling  his  home  with  light  and  joy.  It  had 
never  occurred  to  him  that  she  might  sometime  go 
away,  and  leave  in  his  household  a  void  which  no 
other  one  could  fill,  and  when  one  day,  toward  the 
last  of  June,  his  sister  said  to  him,  "  Alice  has 
received  a  letter  from  an  old  friend  of  her  mother, 
asking  her  to  take  charge  of  the  juvenile  depart- 
ment of  a  young  ladies'  seminary  in  B  ne 

started  as  if  he  had  been  smitten  with  a  heavy  blow. 

"  Alice  teach  school  !"  he  exclaimed.  "  Alice 
go  away  from — me — from  you,  I  mean.  Preposter- 
ous !  She  don't,  of  course,  think  of  accepting  the 
offer?" 

"Yes,  she  does.  I'd  no  idea  she  had  so  much 
decision,"  and  Miss  Elinor's  scissors  cut  quite  a 
hole  in  the  embroidery  on  which  she  has  worked 
ever  since  we  knew  her.  "  I  remonstrated  when  she 
told  me  she  should  return  an  affirmative  answer,  but 
it  did  no  good.  She  never  intended  long  to  burden 
people  on  whom  she  had  no  claim,  she  said.  She 
would  rather  be  independent,  and  though  she  was 
very  happy  here,  she  felt  it  her  duty  to  earn  her 
own  living,  now  that  an  opportunity  was  pre- 
sented." 

"  Earn  her  own  living,"  repeated  Mr,  Howland, 
"just  as  though  she  cost  anybody  anything.  There 


1 12  NATURAL    CONSEQ  UENCE8. 


is  some  other  reason,  and  if  I  didn't  know  you  as 
well  as  I  do,  I  should  be  inclined  to  think  the  fault 
was  with  you.  Maybe  you  do  sometimes  scold  her, 
Elinor  ?"  and  he  fixed  his  eyes  inquiringly  upon 
his  sister's  face. 

Miss  Elinor  had  striven  hard  to  restrain  the  tears 
which  thoughts  of  parting  with  her  favorite  in- 
duced, and  thus  far  she  had  succeeded,  but  when 
she  heard  her  brother's  remark,  they  burst  forth  at 
once. 

"Me  scold  Alice?"  was  all  she  could  articulate, 
as  with  a  deeply  injured  air  she  left  the  room,  while 
her  brother,  seizing  his  hat,  hurried  off  to  the  store, 
where  he  remained  the  entire  day,  trying  to  think 
how  it  would  seem  to  him  when  he  knew  that  Alice 
was  gone. 

didrit  seem  at  all,  either  to  him  or  to  his 
clerks,  for  never  before  had  he  been  so  irritable  and 
cross,  finding  fault  with  the  most  trivial  matters  ; 
chiding  the  cash-boy  for  moving  too  fast,  and  the 
head  clerk  for  moving  too  slow  ;  refusing  to  trust 
the  widow  Simpson,  whom  he  had  trusted  all  his 
life,  and  making  himself  so  generally  disagreeable 
that  the  young  men  in  his  employ  were  not  sorry 
when,  about  five  o'clock,  they  saw  him  start  for 
home. 


NATURAL    CONSEQUENCES.  113 


"I'm  glad  he's  gone,  anyway,  dern  him  !"  mat- 
tered Check,  who  had  been,  perhaps,  the  greatest 
sufferer,  and  with  a  most  contemptuous  whistle  he 
looked  after  the  retreating  figure  of  his  master. 

Alice  was  not  in  the  yard — nor  in  the  parlor — 
nor  in  the  house.  He  knew  it  by  that  indefinable 
feeling  which  we  experience  when  the  one  we  love 
the  best  is  absent. 

"  She  had  gone  to  walk  by  the  river,"  Miss  Elinor 
said,  when  questioned,  asking  him  in  the  same 
breath  why  he  didn't  corne  home  to  dinner. 

.  "  I  was  not  hungry,"  he  replied.  "  The  prospect 
of  losing  Alice  has  taken  my  appetite  away.  Do 
you  think  she  would  stay  with  us,  if  I  were  to  adopt 
her  as  rny  daughter  ?" 

Miss  Elinor  didn't  think  anything.  She  had  not 
quite  forgiven  his  unjust  remark  in  the  morning, 
and  failing  to  obtain  satisfaction  from  her,  he 
started  in  quest  of  Alice,  who,  he  was  sure,  would 
listen  favorably  to  his  plan  of  adoption.  The  tree 
where  she  and  her  father  sat  on  that  afternoon  when 
she  had  come  so  near  to  death,  was  her  favorite 
resort,  and  here  he  now  found  her,  thinking  of  the 
coming  time  when  she  would  be  gone.  It  had  cost 
her  a  struggle  to  decide  the  matter,  but  it  was  best, 
she  thought ;  she  could  not  always  be  dependent, 


114 


JSTA  TUBAL    CONSEQ  UENGES. 


and  that  very  night  she  would  answer  "  Yes."  But 
she  wondered  why  she  should  feel  so  sad,  or  why 
the  thought  of  leaving  Mr.  Howland  should  make 
her  pain  harder  to  bear. 

"I  shall  miss  both  him  and  his  sister  so  much," 
she  unconsciously  said  aloud,  "  I  shall  miss  them 
both,  but  him  the  most." 

"Why  then  do  you  go?"  came  to  her  startled 
ear,  and  Richard  Howland  stood  before  her. 

Springing  to  her  feet  she  blushed  and  stammered 
out  something  about  the  watch-dog  Ponto.  whom 
she  should  miss.  But  it  would  not  do.  Mr. 
Howland  was  not  to  be  deceived,  and  in  her  tell- 
tale face  he  knew  the  watch-dog  Ponto  meant  him- 
self. 

"  Alice,"  said  he,  "  sit  down  with  me  upon  the 
bank,  and  tell  me  why  you  wish  to  leave  us." 

Alice  obeyed,  but  neither  of  them  spoke  until 
Mr.  Howland,  growing  suddenly  very  bold,  wound 
his  arm  around  her  waist,  and  drew  her  to  his  side. 
It  was  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  had  ever  found 
himself  in  a  position  like  this,  and  though  it  was 
very  novel — very  strange — he  liked  it.  He  forgot, 
too,  all  about  the  adoption,  and  bending  low,  so 
that  in  case  of  an  emergency  his  lips  could  touch 
her  cheek,  he  whispered  : 


NATURAL    CONSEQUENCES.  115 


"  Alice— " 

But  what  else  he  said  the  murmuring  river  never 
told,  neither  the  summer  air  which  lifted  the  . shining 
tresses  falling  over  his  arm,  nor  yet  the  little  bird, 
which  from  the  overhanging  bough  looked  archly 
down  upon  them,  shutting  its  round,  bright  eye 
with  a  knowing  look  as  if  it  understood  that  scene. 
It  did  understand,  and  the  sight  of  them  sitting 
there  thus  brought  to  mind  the  dainty  nest  up  in  the 
maple  tree,  where  its  own  loved  mate  was  waiting, 
and  when  at  last  the  maiden  lifted  up  her  head,  it 
plumed  its  wings  for  flight  and  flew  away,  singing 
as  it  flew. 

"  She's  won — she's  won." 

That  night  Alice,  instead  of  Mr.  Howland,  was 
missing  from  the  table,  and  when  Miss  Elinor 
sought  her  in  her  room,  she  was  surprised  at  the 
abruptness  with  which  the  young  girl  threw  her 
arms  around  her  neck  and  whispered  : 

"I  am  happy — oh,  so  happy." 

Then,  with  the  twilight  shadows  gathering 
around,  Alice  told  her  story  to  the  wondering  lady, 
who  in  her  joy  forgave  her  brother  for  his  unjust 
insinuation,  and  folding  the  orphan  girl  lovingly 
in  her  arms,  she  told  her  how  gladly  she  should 
welcome  her  as  a  sister.    It  was  known  ere  long 


116  JSTA  TUBAL    CONSEQ  UENCE8. 


all  over  town  that  the  wealthy  Mr.  Howland  was 
to  wed  the  blind  man's  daughter,  and  the  rude 
brown  rafters  of  the  cottage  in  the  hollow  never 
witnessed  so  fierce  a  storm  of  passion  and  of  tears 
as  on  the  night  when  first  to  Adelaide  came  tidings 
that  the  man  she  so  much  loved  had  given  himself 
to  another.  To  William  Huntington,  however,  the 
news  brought  joy  and  gladness.  He  had  recovered 
from  his  broken  limb,  but  his  health  did  not 
improve,  and  now  he  seldom  left  his  home.  Still 
he  did  whatever  he  could  do  for  his  family,  and  the 
little  yard  in  front  of  his  house  was  filled  with 
flowers,  which  he  tended  with  the  utmost  care,  and 
sold  in  small  bouquets  to  such  of  the  villagers  as 
wished  to  buy.  When  he  heard  that  Alice  was  to 
be  a  bride  ere  the  summer  days  were  gone,  he  set 
apart  his  choicest  flowers,  watching  them  with 
jealous  care,  and  experiencing  a  childish  delight  in 
thinking  how  he  would  form  a  rare  bouquet,  worthy 
of  her  to  whom  it  should  be  given. 

There  was  no  reason  why  the  marriage  should 
be  delayed,  Mr.  Howland  said,  and  so  one  balmy 
Bight,  when  the  harvest  moon  was  in  its  infancy,  St. 
Luke's  Church  was  filled  to  overflowing,  and  the 
same  man,  who,  over  Hugo  Warren's  grave,  had 
read  the  burial  service,  now  spoke   the  solemn 


NA  TUBAL    CONSEQ  UENGES.  1 1 7 


words  which  made  one  flesh  of  two.  And  when 
the  rite  was  ended  and  Alice  was  a  bride,  from  the 
three  towers  of  Oakland  there  rang  a  merry  peal, 
for  Mr.  Howland  was  greatly  honored  by  the 
citizens  who  thus  would  keep  his  wedding  night. 

Across  the  grassy  meadow,  up  the  wooded  hill, 
and  down  into  the  hollow,  floated  the  music  of 
those  bells,  awakening  an  answering  note  of  joy  in 
every  heart  save  that  of  the  wretched  Adelaide, 
who,  grinding  her  teeth  together,  fled  to  her  lonely 
garret  and  stuffed  cotton  in  her  ears,  so  as  to  shut 
out  the  hateful  sound,  which  told  her  of  her  rival's 
happiness.  Anon,  and  from  the  rocky  heights 
which  overlooked  the  town,  and  from  the  village 
green,  there  shone  a  lurid  light.  Bonfires  had  been 
kindled  by  the  workmen  from  the  factory  and  shop, 
and  among  the  boys  who  danced  around  the  blazing 
fire,  none  threw  his  hat  so  high  or  cut  so  many 
antics  as  did  the  little  Check,  who  in  his  bran-new 
suit,  the  gift  of  Mr.  Howland,  forgot  his  grievances 
on  that  memorable  day  when  his  master  tried  to 
see  how  it  would  seem,  to  live  without  Alice 
Warren. 

From  her  window  Adelaide  looked  out  upon 
the  scene,  shedding  bitter  tears  of  envy  and  of  rage, 
then,  wishing  she  had  never  seen  the  light  of  day 


118  NA  TUBAL    COJSfSEQ  UENOES. 


she  sought  her  solitary  pillow  and  cried  herself  to 
sleep,  while  the  song  and  the  dance  moved  joyously 
on,  and  the  gentle  bride,  in  her  robes  of  white, 
looked  lovingly  up  to  him  who  was  her  all  in  all. 
Nor  were  the  inmates  of  the  brown  house  in  the 
hollow  forgotten  by  Alice  in  her  prosperity.  From 
Mr.  Huntington  she  had  received  a  beautiful 
bouquet ;  it  was  all,  save  his  blessing,  that  he  had 
to  give,  he  said,  and  Alice  prized  it  the  more  when 
she  knew  how  carefully  he  had  watched  each 
opening  bud,  shielding  it  alike  from  storm  and 
noonday  heat. 

v  I  will  remember  him  for  this,"  she  thought, 
and  many  a  timely  gift  found  its  way  to  the  brown 
cottage  where  it  was  sorely  needed,  for  as  the  fall 
advanced  Mr.  Huntington  grew  worse,  and  to  the 
other  labors  of  his  family  was  added  the  task  of 
ministering  to  him  and  providing  for  his  wants. 

As  yet,  no  rent  for  the  cottage  had  been  paid, 
and  Miss  Elinor,  when  she  remembered  the  ugly 
name  which  Adelaide  had  called  her,  secretly 
wished  she  might  be  turned  into  the  street.  But 
her  brother  was  more  forgiving,  and  when  Alice's 
birthday  came,  he  gave  her  the  brown  house  in  the 
hollow,  telling  her  playfully  that  she  must  collect 
the  rent  of  her  own  property  ! 


NA  TUBAL    CONSEQ  UENCES.  1 1 9 


"And  I  would  do  it  too,"  spoke  up  Miss  Elinor, 
who,  nevertheless,  was  just  as  sure  then  of  what 
Alice  intended  to  do  as  she  was  next  morning  when 
she  saw  upon  her  sister's  writing-desk  a  receipt  in 
full  for  the  rent,  and  heard  Alice  bid  a  servant  take 
it,  with  sundry  other  things,  to  the  brown  house  in 
the  hollow  as  a  Christmas  gift  from  her. 

Surely  it  is  more  blessed  to  give  than  to  receive, 
and  the  prayer  which  the  sick  man  breathed  for 
Alice  Howland  was  worth  far  more  to  her  than  the 
paltry  sum  which  she  had  lost  by  doing  what  she 
did.  Adelaide,  too,  was  softened,  for  the  pangs  of 
poverty  were  beginning  to  be  keenly  felt,  and  when 
the  servant  turned  to  go,  she  said  to  him,  with 
quivering  lip: 

"Tell  Mrs.  Howland  that  /  thank  her." 

Another  year  has  nearly  gone,  and  from  the 
windows  of  the  cottage  there  shines  a  glimmering 
light,  while  gathered  round  the  hearth  three  lonely 
women  sit.  They  are  now  indeed  alone — the  bed 
in  the  corner  is  empty — the  husband  and  father  is 
gone.  When  the  last  May  flowers  were  blooming, 
and  the  voice  of  spring  was  on  the  hills,  strong 
men  carried  him  out  into  the  open  air,  and  in  the 
village  church-yard,  not  far  from  Hugo  Warren's 
grave,  they  laid  the  weary  one  to  rest.  William 


120 


M  TUBAL    G0JST8EQ  UEJSTCES. 


Huntington  had  saved  the  life  of  Richard  How- 
land's  wife,  and  for  this  reason  his  family  were  not 
neglected,  though  Miss  Elinor  took  good  care  that 
not  enough  assistance  should  be  given  to  them  "  to 
keep  the  trollop,  Adelaide,  from  working." 

In  Richard  Howland's  home  all  is  joy  and  glad- 
ness, and  though  the  curtains  of  one  room  are 
dropped,  and  the  blinds  are  closely  shut,  it  is  only 
because  the  fussy  old  nurse  will  have  it  so,  and  not 
because  the  young  mother  is  in  any  danger  now. 
In  the  crib  there  sleeps  a  sturdy  boy,  and  the 
bottom  of  his  cambric  petticoat  is  trimmed  with  the 
veritable  embroidery  which  we  have  often  seen  in 
the  hands  of  Miss  Elinor,  who  is  the  baby's  aunt. 

She  had  fully  expected  that  it  would  bear  her 
name,  but  it  proved  a  Betsey  Trotwood  affair,  and 
when  the  Christmas  bells  are  ringing,  and  the  star 
of  Bethlehem  gleams  on  the  walls  of  the  old  stone 
church,  she  will  stand  as  sponsor  for  the  little  boy, 
to  whom  in  memory  of  the  blind  man  now  singing 
to  the  praise  of  Bethlehem's  child,  will  be  given  the 
name  of  "  Hugo  Warren." 

THE  END 
OF 

ALICE  AND  ADELAIDE. 


RED-BIRD. 

A    BROWN    COTTAGE  STORY. 


CHAPTER  I. 

INTRODUCTORY. 

T  was  Christmas  morning,  and  everywhere 
the  merry  bells  were  ringing  and  telling 
again  the  story,  which,  though  more  than 
eighteen  hundred  years  old,  is  always 
sweet,  always  new — the  story  of  Bethlehem's  babe, 
for  whose  birth-day  we  keep  the  Christmas-tide. 
All  over  the  northern  hills  the  December  snow  was 
lying,  and  the  wind  was  sharp  and  cold  as  it  went 
singing  past  the  windows  of  the  houses  where  so 
many  eager,  happy  children  ate  their  Christmas 
cakes,  or  counted  their  Christmas  toys.  But  far 
away  in  the  south  land  it  was  like  summer  still, 

[121] 


122 


INTRODUCTORY. 


and  the  orange-trees  were  fresh,  and  green,  and 
beautiful,  with  the  yellow  fruit  and  the  white 
blossoms  showing  among  the  leaves.  Upon  the 
highest  branch  of  a  tall  orange  tree  which  grew 
upon  the  bank  of  the  river  St.  John,  a  Red-bird 
was  sitting,  and  listening  to  a  Paroquet,  which,  on  a 
magnolia  near  by,  was  dressing  its  bright  plumage, 
and  talking  to  his  neighbor,  the  Red-bird. 

After  wishing  him  a  merry  Christmas,  he  said: 

"  And  so,  Mrs.  Red,  you  are  still  alive!  Why, 
we  all  thought  you  were  dead,  and  Mr.  Red  wore 
mourning  for  a  month,  and  then — but  never  mind. 
Have  you  been  up  to  the  old  nest  among  the  yellow 
jasmine?  If  not,  I  advise  you  to  stay  away  ;  but 
say,  where  have  you  been  this  year  or  more  Tell 
me  about  it." 

It  seemed  strange  to  me,  who  was  sitting  on  a 
bench  beneath  the  magnolia-tree,  to  hear  birds 
talking  together  after  this  fashion,  and  remember- 
ing the  children  at  the  North  who  had  never  seen  a 
Paroquet,  nor  a  magnolia,  nor  a  Red-bird,  nor  an 
orange-tree,  I  said  to  myself,  I  will  write  down 
what  these  birds  are  saying,  and  sometime,  perhaps, 
I'll  send  it  to  the  little  ones  at  home. 

And  this,  as  nearly  as  I  could  understand  it,  was 
the  story  the  Red-bird  told. 


THE  STORY. 


123 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  STORY. 

OU  may  well  ask  me  where  I  have  been, 
Mr.  Paroquet/'  said  the  Red-bird,  "  but 
you  can  keep  your  Merry  Christmas 
to  yourself,  for  it  is  not  a  merry 
Christmas  with  me.  My  heart  is  as  heavy  as  lead, 
and  if  it  were  not  that  I  dreaded  the  cold  so  much, 
I'd  fly  to  the  North,  where  they  are  having  a  grand 
time  to-day  with  their  Christmas-trees,  and  the 
children  all  so  happy." 

"Fly  to  the  North!"  said  Mr.  Paroquet,  with  a 
shudder.  u  Fly  to  that  horrid  place  where  they 
have  ice  and  snow  the  year  round,  with  nothing 
green  or  bright,  unless  it's  that  Christmas-tree  you 
speak  of  !  Pray,  may  I  ask  what  kind  of  a  tree 
that  is  ?  Is  it  like  this  magnolia,  or  that  palm 
across  the  river,  waving  its  fans  in  the  breeze,  or 
that  orange-tree  where  you  are  sitting  ?  And  what 
kind  of  fruit  does  it  bear?    Icicles,  or  what  ?" 


124 


THE  STORY. 


"  Icicles  !"  And  Mrs.  Red  laughed  a  merry, 
rippling  kind  of  laugh  which  did  me  good  to  hear, 
for  there  was  something  very  sad  in  the  expression 
of  her  face,  as  if  she  had  lost  every  friend  she  ever 
had.  "Little  you  know  of  the  North  and  what 
they  have  there.  I'll  wager  now  you  never  heard 
of  the  place  before/' 

"Haven't  I,  though  ?"  Mr.  Paroquet  returned. 
"  Didn't  one  of  those  men  from  the  North  shoot  the 
first  Mrs.  Paroquet  one  morning,  just  after  break- 
fast, when  she  had  gone  out  to  take  the  air,  and  I 
was  watching  the  three  little  birds  in  the  nest? 
And  didn't  he  take  her  away  to  that  place  they  call 
New  York,  and  didn't  I  hear  afterward  from  a 
robin  who  comes  down  here  every  winter  that  they 
stuffed  her,  and  put  glass  eyes  in  her,  and  strung  her 
on  a  wire  frame,  and  set  her  up  in  somebody's 
parlor  for  an  ornament,  to  be  admired  ?  My  dead 
wife  stuffed ! — and  such  a  time  as  I  had  with  the 
little  ones,  who  kept  tumbling  out  of  the  nest,  and 
who  had  such  appetites  that  I  was  almost  worn  out 
with  hunting  things  for  them  to  eat,  and  was 
obliged  to  get  another  Mrs.  Paroquet  to  help  me  do 
the  work.  Of  course,  I  know  about  the  North  ; 
but  pray  go  on  and  tell  me  how  you  happened  to 
be  there,  and  why  you  are  here  again." 


THE  STORY. 


125 


"  Yes,"  returned  Mrs.  Red,  "Td  like  to  tell  some 
body.  You  remember  my  old  home  up  the  river, 
where  the  stream  is  so  narrow  that  the  boats  almost 
touch  the  shore  as  they  pass.  There's  a  splendid 
mass  of  yellow  jasmine  there,  with  lots  of  white 
dogwood,  and  Cherokee  roses,  and  orange-trees, 
and  palms,  and  magnolias,  and  water  oaks,  and 
there  I  had  my  nest,  all  covered  up  with  flowers 
and  leaves. 

"  I  was  very  happy  in  my  soft,  warm  nest,  with 
Mr.  Red,  and  four  of  the  prettiest  little  birds  you 
ever  saw  just  hatched  and  wanting  a  mother's  care 
so  badly.  But  one  morning  I  saw  coming  down 
the  river  one  of  those  big  boats,  full  of  people,  who 
kept  firing  at  the  poor  alligators  sunning  them- 
selves in  the  warm  spring  air.  At  last  the  boat 
stopped,  and  some  of  the  men  got  out  and  began  to 
look  around  and  fire  at  anything  they  saw  ;  and 
one  shot  hit  me  under  my  wing,  so  that  I  could  not 
fly,  but  dropped  to  the  ground,  half  dead  with  pain 
and  fright,  but  still  having  sense  enough  to  be  glad 
that  it  was  1  who  was  hurt  instead  of  Mr.  Red,  who 
flew  away  to  the  top  of  the  very  tallest  palm-tree  in 
sight,  where  he  sat  and  watched  while  a  man  picked 
me  up  and  said: 

"  '  See,  she  is  not  dead ;  she  is  only  wounded, 


126 


THE  8T0RT. 


I  shall  take  her  to  my  wife  at  the  hotel.  She  has 
wanted  a  Red-bird  so  much/ 

"  What  a  hotel  was,  or  where  he  meant  to  take 
me,  I  did  not  know,  and  for  a  time  I  must  have 
been  unconscious,  for  the  next  I  knew  I  was  on  the 
boat  covered  over  with  a  kind  of  wire  screen,  which 
kept  me  a  prisoner.  I  could  not  get  away,  though 
I  beat  my  head  against  the  screen  until  it  ached 
almost  as  hard  as  the  place  under  my  wing. 

"Oh  !  what  a  change  it  was  from  my  lovely 
nest  among  the  oranges,  and  magnolias,  and 
jasmines,  to  that  dreadful  wooden  box  in  which 
they  put  me  at  the  hotel,  and  which  they  called  a 
cage.  I  think  my  new  mistress  meant  to  be  kind 
to  me,  for  she  stroked  my  feathers  very  gently,  and 
called  me  a  '  poor  little  thing/  and  brought  me  so 
many  things  to  eat.  But  I  could  touch  none  of 
them,  I  was  so  home-sick  and  lonely,  and  my  heart 
was  aching  so  for  the  dear  home  up  the  river,  and 
the  little  birdies  there,  who  were  sure  to  cry  for  me 
when  the  dark  night  came  on  and  I  was  not  there 
to  shelter  them.  Would  Mr.  Red  do  it?  I  won- 
dered, and  I  was  afraid  he  wouldn't ;  for,  though 
the  very  best  of  all  the  Red-birds  on  the  St.  John's, 
he  did  not  always  like   to  be  bothered  with  the 


THE  STORY. 


127 


children,  especially  when  he  was  tired  and  a  little 
cross." 

"  But  he  did,  though/'  interrupted  Mr.  Paroquet. 
"  He  took  care  of  them  for  quite  a  while  after  you 
went  away.  I  used  to  see  him  hunting  worms,  and 
seeds  and  things  ;  and  he'd  go  every  day  to  the  top 
of  that  palm  you  spoke  of,  and  watch  to  see  if  you 
were  not  coming  back.  After  awhile — well,  you 
remember  old  Mr.  Red,  whose  nest  was  near  yours 
on  a  sour  orange-tree,  and  whose  pretty  little 
grand-daughter,  Spotted-Wing,  with  the  shining 
feathers  and  so  many  airs,  you  did  not  fancy  much  ? 

"Yes,  I  remember  her,"  Mrs.  Red  answered  very 
sadly,  I  thought,  and  Mr.  Paroquet  continued  : 

"She  used  to  fly  up  to  that  palm,  too,  and  balance 
herself  way  out  on  the  very  tip  of  the  longest  green 
fan,  and  help  him  watch  for youy  because  she  was  so 
anxious  for  you  to  come  back  and  relieve  him  of 
his  family  cares,  and  then  her  eyes  were  younger 
than  his,  and  could  see  farther,  you  know." 

And  as  he  said  this  Mr.  Paroquet  rolled  both  of 
his  eyes  quite  out  of  sight  in  what  I  thought  a  very 
disagreeable,  insinuating  manner.  But  Mrs.  Red 
did  not  seem  to  notice,  and  went  on  with  her  story: 

"I  am  glad  if  he  was  good  to  the  children,  and 
missed  me  a  little,  for  I  was  so  home-sick  for  him, 


128 


THE  STOEY. 


that  I  could  neither  sleep  nor  eat,  and  I  heard  my 
mistress  say  she  was  afraid  I  would  starve  tG 
death.  And  I  was  afraid,  too,  for  had  I  been 
disposed  to  eat  I  could  not  have  touched  what 
she  brought  me — sweet  potato,  cake,  and  bread 
and  sugar,  as  if  that  were  proper  diet  for  a  bird. 
I  had  a  great  deal  of  attention  from  the  guests 
of  the  hotel.  It  was  the  St.  James,  I  heard  them 
say,  and  it  was  full  of  people  who  did  nothing  but 
eat,  and  sleep,  and  dress  for  the  parlors  or  the 
piazzas,  where  the  young  ones  used  to  walk  some- 
times of  an  evening.  At  last,  one  morning  very 
early,  before  anybody  was  up  except  a  few  of  the 
servants,  I  was  sitting  on  my  perch  in  a  new  cage, 
with  my  head  down,  thinking  so  hard  that  I  heard 
nothing  until  suddenly  I  was  startled  by  a  strange 
voice  with  a  decidedly  foreign  accent,  close  to  the 
bars  of  my  cage. 

"  4  Halloo,  Miss  Red  top/  it  said,  '  seems  to  me 
you  are  down  in  the  mouth  this  morning.  Guess 
you  didn't  sleep  well.  What's  the  matter  with  you? 
Look  up  and  speak  to  a  fellow,  can't  you  ?' 

"  So  I  looked  up  and  saw  a  big  round  fat  robin, 
with  a  breast  red  and  shining,  and  a  very  good- 
natured  face,  and  eyes  which  were  very  curious  and 


THE  STOUT. 


129 


inquisitive,  as  if  he  meant  to  know  everybody's 
business,  and  help  them  attend  to  it,  too." 

"  I'll  bet  that's  the  very  robin  who  brought  me 
news  of  my  stuffed  wife,"  interposed  Mr.  Paroquet. 
"  He  knows  everybody,  and  can  trace  their  family 
back  to  the  time  wThen  Mr.  Noah  let  the  first  bird 
out  of  the  ark.  He  comes  here  every  winter  for 
his  health,  he  says,  and  he  stops  along  by  the  way, 
and  so  gets  all  the  news." 

"  Maybe  it  was  the  same,"  Mrs.  Red  replied. 
"  But  he  was  very  kind  to  me,  and  asked  me  a  great 
many  questions,  and  when  he  heard  my  story,  he 
said  if  it  were  not  so  warm  he'd  go  up  the  river  and 
find  Mr.  Red,  and  tell  him  about  me.  I  thanked 
him  and  said  that  would  do  no  good  as  I  could  not 
get  out  of  prison,  and  should  die  there  very  soon. 

"  i  No,  you  won't,'  he  answered,  cheerily.  1  You'll 
get  used  to  it/ 

"Then,  after  eyeing  me  awhile,  he  continued  : 

"'Why,  Miss  Red-top,  I'll  tell  you  what's  the 
matter.  You  are  starved!  Look  at  that  sweet  po- 
tato and  frosted  cake.  You'll  have  dyspepsia  sure. 
What  you  want  is  a  good  fat  bug,  and  seeds  of  some 
kind.    Just  keep  up  your  courage,  and  I'll  fix  you/ 

"  So  saying,  he  flew  away  to  a  neighboring 
garden,  while  I  thought  how  good  he  was  to  me, 


130 


THE  STORY. 


an  entire  stranger,  though  I  did  wish  he  would  not 
call  me  miss.  It  made  me  feel  ashamed  when  I 
remembered  Mr.  Red  and  the  nest  among  the 
jasmine. 

"When  my  mistress  came  to  see  me,  after  break- 
fast, bringing  the  usual  sweet  potato,  and  broiled 
fish  and  bits  of  bread,  she  found  a  part  of  a  bug  in 
my  cage,  and  a  piece  of  fig  which  my  new  friend 
had  found  near  one  of  the  dining-room  windows 
and  brought  to  me.  Great  was  her  wonder  as  to 
where  it  came  from,  but  as  I  could  not  talk  to  her, 
though  able  to  understand  all  she  said,  I  do  not 
suppose  she  ever  knew  about  the  robin  who  came  to 
see  me  every  morning  before  there  was  much  stir 
in  the  hotel,  and  kept  me  so  well  supplied  with 
such  things  as  I  liked,  that  I  began  to  recover  my 
health  and  my  spirits,  too,  though  my  heart  was 
always  aching  for  the  nest  up  the  river,  and  the 
babies  I  left  in  it.  Gradually,  too,  I  began  to  have 
a  great  liking  for  Mr.  Red-Breast,  as  I  called  him  at 
first,  though  he  insisted  that  I  should  say  Robin, 
as  that  was  more  familiar.  At  home  they  all  called 
him  Robin,  and  no  one  ever  mistered  him,  he  said, 
except  Mrs.  Robin,  when  she  began  to  help  him 
build  the  nest  in  the  mountain  ash,  which  he  told 
me  grew  in  the  garden  where  he  lived  at  the  North. 


ROBIN' 8  HOME. 


131 


CHAPTER  III. 

robin's  home. 

NE  morning  when  he  came  to  see  me  as 
usual,  complaining  of  the  heat,  and 
saying  he  should  soon  be  starting  for 
home  if  the  weather  continued  like 
this,  he  found  me  very  sad  and  anxious,  for  only 
the  night  before  I  had  heard  my  mistress  say  that 
she  intended  taking  me  North  with  her,  and  should, 
perhaps,  give  me  to  a  friend  who  had  asked  her  to 
bring  her  a  bird  from  the  South.  This  was  a  death- 
blow to  all  my  hopes,  for  as  day  after  day  I  had 
watched  the  piles  of  baggage  and  the  crowds  of 
people  which  left  the  hotel,  and  heard  the  waiters 
say  they  were  starting  for  home,  I  thought  to  my- 
self the  day  will  come  when  my  mistress  will  go, 
too,  and  then  she  will  surely  set  me  free,  and  I 
fancied  the  surprise  and  joy  of  Mr.  Red  and  the 
little  ones,  when  I  flew  down  upon  them  some 
evening." 

"  About  how  long  was  this  after  your  capture  i" 
asked  the  Paroquet,  and  Mrs.  Red  replied  : 


132 


ROBIN'S  110318. 


"  Three,  or  four,  or  five  weeks.    I  don't  quite 

remember/' 

"Ah  !"  and  Mr.  Paroquet  nodded  very  know- 
ingly. "  I  reckon  he  might  have  been  surprised  to 
see  you,  and  glad,  of  course,  very  glad,  and  Miss 
Spotted-Wing,  too,  for  she  was  at  the  jasmine  nest 
every  day  by  that  time,  helping  take  care  of  the 
children,  and  must  have  been  pretty  well  tired  out." 

"Yes,"  and  Mrs.  Red  spoke  sorry-like,  as  she 
always  did  when  Spotted-Wing  was  mentioned,  but 
if  she  understood  the  Paroquet's  meaning  she  gave 
no  sign,  and  went  on  with  her  story. 

"All  my  hopes  were  blasted  now,  for  if  my 
mistress  took  me  away  with  her  that  was  the  end 
to  my  dream  of  freedom,  and  I  was  feeling  so 
wretched  and  heart-sick  when  Robin  came,  as  usual, 
and  to  him  I  told  my  trouble,  asking  what  the 
North  was  like,  and  if,  as  I  had  heard,  it  snowed 
there  all  the  time,  though  what  snow  was  I  did  not 
then  know,  any  more  than  you  knew  what  icicles 
were  when  you  asked  if  they  grew  on  Christmas- 
trees. 

" 4  Snow  all  the  time!'  and  Robin  laughed  so 
loudly  that  I  was  afraid  he  would  awaken  the  lady 
on  whose  window-sill  he  was  sitting.  6  That  is  one 
of  your  mistaken  ideas  of  the  North.    Snow  all  the 


ROBIN'S  HOME. 


133 


time  !  No,  nor  half  the  time,  though  we  do  have 
some  pretty  heavy  north-easters  when  the  wind 
blows  enough  to  shake  your  feathers  off  ;  but  that 
is  in  the  winter,  when  such  as  you  are  in  the  warm 
house,  hanging  by  the  windows,  where  you  can  look 
out  and  see  the  snow  drifting  down  through  the 
trees,  as  the  leaves  of  the  dogwood  and  Cherokee 
roses  fall  in  high  wind.  But  it  is  the  summer  that 
is  just  glorious  up  there  !  Do  you  see  that  patch 
of  green  V  and  he  nodded  toward  a  yard  not  far 
away,  which  I  had  before  noticed,  and  thought  very 
fine. 

"'Well,  the  people  who  live  there  have  sowed 
some  kind  of  grain  to  make  believe  it  was  grass, 
but,  dear  me,  it  is  no  more  like  the  turf  at  the 
North  than  your  sand  is  like  our  clay.  I  wish  you 
could  see  our  beautiful  lawns  and  meadows  ;  they 
are  just  like  a  piece  of  green  velvet.  There  is  grass 
everywhere,  and  such  flowers  as  we  have  in  the 
summer  time  ;  such  roses !  No  Cherokees,  to  be 
sure,  but  all  the  other  kinds,  with  names  I  cannot 
begin  to  pronounce.  And  there  is  some  smell  to 
the  lilacs,  and  honeysuckles,  and  the  June  pinks, 
and  the  English  violets,  and  I  can't  begin  to  tell  you 
what  else,  except  that  the  beds  and  borders  are  one 


134 


nOBTIPS  HOME. 


blaze  of  beauty  and  brightness  from  early  June  till 
the  frost  comes  in  the  fall/ 

" '  Do  you  have  magnolias  there  ?'  I  asked,  and 
he  answered  slowly,  *  Well,  now,  Miss  Red,  we 
don't  have  magnolias,  nor  orange  blossoms,  nor 
jasmines,  and  such  like,  but  we  have  pond  lilies, 
which  to  my  mind  beat  everything  else  in  the 
world.  I  wish  you  could  see  my  home,  or  rather 
the  garden  where  I  was  born,  and  have  lived  all 
my  life.  It  is  so  lovely,  with  its  grass  and  ever- 
greens, and  mountain-ash  and  horse-chestnuts,  and 
so  many  crooked  little  paths  winding  here  and 
there,  and  arbors  covered  with  woodbine,  and 
grape-vines,  and  roses,  and  in  the  summer  so  many 
baskets  and  tall  white  things  filled  with  flowers  ; 
and,  oh  my,  if  you  could  just  see  the  cherry-trees ! 
It  makes  my  mouth  water  now  to  think  of  the 
luscious  fruit  of  which  we  robins  can  have  all  we 
want.  There  is  one  tree  which  my  mistress  says 
belongs  to  the  boys  and  birds,  and  such  squabbles 
as  we  have  over  it.  I  don't  much  like  the  boys,  for 
they  will  leave  cherries  any  time  to  break  up  a 
bird's  nest,  and  Pve  seen  some  sad  sights  in  my 
time  ;  though  in  the  garden  everything  was  peace- 
ful and  quiet,  for  my  mistress  takes  care  of  the  birds, 
and  sometimes  in  spring,  when  the  snow  comes  late, 


ROBIN'S  HOME. 


135 


and  we  cannot  find  any  wo"  fts,  she  gives  us  bread 
crumbs  to  eat,  and  we  are  not  afraid  of  her,  though 
she  comes  very  near  to  us.  My  nest  was  up  under 
the  eaves,  and  near  a  chamber  window,  where  I  felt 
so  safe  and  secure,  knowing  that  nothing  could  ever 
touch  the  pretty  blue  eggs  which  Mrs.  Robin  laid 
every  spring  and  summer.  Neither  boy  nor  cat 
could  reach  us  there/ 

"  <  Cat  ?'  "  I  said.  "  '  Cat  !  Pray  what  is  that  ? 
I  never  heard  of  a  cat  before.' 

Never  heard  of  a  cat?'  Mr.  Robin  repeated, 
and  now  he  laughed  so  loudly  that  the  lady  in  the 
room  upon  whose  window-sill  he  was  sitting  turned 
the  shutter,  and  looked  out  to  see  what  all  the 
chattering  was  about. 

M '  Seems  to  me  the  birds  make  a  great  noise 
this  morning.  They  have  been  at  it  more  than  an 
hour,'  I  heard  her  say,  and  then  she  went  on  with 
her  dressing,  while  Robin  continued  : 

"  i  Never  heard  of  a  cat  !  Why,  where  were  you' 
raised,  that  your  education  was  so  neglected  ?  But 
I  forgot  that  you  Red-birds  lead  a  kind  of  Bo- 
hemian life  apart  from  civilization,  and  so  fail  to 
learn  a  great  many  things  which  we  robins,  who  are 
in  society  all  the  time,  take  naturally/ 

"  I  had  before  observed  that  Mr.  Robin,  though 


136 


BOBIN'8  HOME. 


given  to  a  good  deal  of  slang,  sometimes  went  off 
into  strains  which  I  could  not  understand,  and  this 
was  one  of  them,  for  I  had  not  the  remotest  idea 
what  he  meant  by  civilization  or  Bohemian  either, 
and  I  said  so  to  him,  whereupon  lie  laughed  again, 
and  told  me  that  the  free  and  easy  life  I  led  up  the 
river  with  Mr.  Red  and  the  little  Reds,  and  the 
jasmines,  and  Cherokees,  and  alligators  was  Bo- 
hemian, while  it  was  the  very  top  of  civilization 
and  society  to  be  shut  up  in  a  gilded  cage  as  I  was, 
with  no  chance  of  escape.  At  the  risk  of  seeming 
very  vulgar  and  ignorant  in  his  eyes,  I  told  him  I 
liked  Bohemian  best,  even  if  I  had  never  heard  of  a 
cat,  and  then  I  questioned  him  again  of  that  crea- 
ture, was  it  a  bird,  or  a  beast,  or  what  V 

A  beast  most  decidedly,'  he  said;  'a  vile,  ugly 
beast]  and  by  ugly  he  meant  bad,  for  he  said  cats 
looked  well  enough,  and  he  had  even  heard  his 
mistress  call  one  she  had  '  a  darling  little  beauty,' 
but  he  did  not  see  it.  They  had  fur  instead  ol 
feathers,  four  legs  instead  of  two,  with  a  long 
streamer  behind  which  was  called  a  tail,  and  which 
was  anything  but  handsome.  Then  they  were  the 
natural  enemies  of  birds,  which  they  caught  and  ate 
whenever  a  chance  occurred. 


RODIN'S  HOME. 


137 


"  '  Eat  birds  !  Eat  my  little  Reds  V  I  exclaimed, 
in  horror,  and  he  replied  : 

"  '  Yes,  quicker  than  wink  if  they  could  get  at  'em; 
and  they  are  so  sly  and  creeping-like  that  they  are 
upon  you  before  you  know  it,  and  they  keep  us  in 
a  constant  fret  when  we  are  teaching  our  young 
ones  to  fly.' 

"'Then  there  is  something  bad  even  at  the 
North,  which  you  describe  as  so  perfect/  I  said,  a 
little  maliciously. 

"  1  Why,  yes/  he  answered,  slightly  crestfallen. 
1  We  have  cats  there,  but  then  there's  no  place  just 
exactly  right,  you  know.  There's  a  cat  or  some- 
thing everywhere.' 

"  I  knew  that  '  by  cat  or  something/  he  meant 
an  annoyance  of  some  kind,  and  I  thought  of  the 
yellow  jasmines  up  the  river,  and  said  to  myself, 
-  There's  no  cat  there  ;'  and  then,  when  I  remem- 
bered how  Mr.  Red  had  sometimes  troubled  me 
with  his  indolent  habits,  and  his  familiar  way  of 
talking  to  that  pert  Miss  Spotted-Wing,  I  thought 
that  might  perhaps  have  been  a  cat,  or  at  least  a 
kitten,  as  Robin  said  the  little  cats  were  called. 

"  And  then  he  told  me  of  a  kitten  which  came  to 
his  mistress'  door  one  wintry  day  when  the  snow 
was  blowing,  as  he  said,  great  guns,  and  the  mount- 


138 


ROBIN'S  HOME. 


ain  ash  almost  bent  up  double  before  the  driving 
wind.  His  mistress  heard  the  cry,  and  saw  the  kitt) 
looking  in  at  the  window  and  begging  to  come  in  ; 
and  as  both  she  and  the  master  were  fond  of  cats 
he  waded  out  into  the  snow  and  brought  the  kitty 
in,  and  gave  it  milk  in  a  china  saucer  in  the  parlor, 
and  petted  it  more  than  they  did  old  Fanny,  a  highly 
respectable  cat,  who  had  lived  with  them  a  long 
time,  and  who  did  not  at  first  take  kindly  to  Jim — 
that  was  what  they  called  the  intruder — but  spit  at 
him,  and  boxed  his  ears,  and  growled  if  he  came 
near  her.  But  Jim  was  not  to  be  repressed,  and 
cared  nothing  for  Fanny's  growls,  or  spits,  or 
boxes,  but  seized  every  opportunity  to  jump  at  her 
from  under  chairs  and  tables,  and  to  spring  at  her 
tail,  until  the  old  cat's  life  was  almost  a  burden  to 
her.  At  last,  however,  Jim  conquered,  and  the  two 
were  the  best  of  friends,  Fanny  treating  him  as  if  he 
had  been  her  own,  giving  him  more  than  half  the 
milk,  and  even  waking  him  up  when  the  dinner-bell 
rang,  if  he  happened  to  be  sleeping  in  the  easy-chair 
near  the  fire,  where  he  took  his  usual  nap. 

"  '  After  a  time,'  said  Robin,  i  old  Fanny  died, 
and  was  buried  in  the  garden,  under  the  plum-tree, 
and  then  Jim  was  really  the  master  of  the  house,  for 
I  never  knew  a  cat  petted  as  my  mistress  petted 


ROBIN'S  ROME, 


139 


him.  And  for  a  cat  he  was  very  handsome.  He 
did  not  grow  tall  and  long,  as  cats  usually  do,  but 
was  short,  and  fat,  and  round  as  a  ball,  with  fur 
which  shone  like  satin,  and  a  white  spot  under  his 
chin.  I  did  not  wonder  my  mistress  liked  him,  he 
was  so  playful  and  affectionate  ;  but  it  used  to  make 
me  sick  sometimes  when  she  actually  kissed  him 
and  called  him  a  darling.  But  when  one  morning 
he  caught  a  little  striped  snake,  and  carried  it  to  her 
in  triumph,  and  persisted  in  keeping  it  and  tossing 
it  in  the  air  in  spite  of  all  her  efforts  to  make  him 
drop  it,  I  noticed  that  she  did  not  fondle  him  for  a 
week  :  and  I  think  she  put  him  in  the  bath-tub,  for 
I  saw  him  lying  in  the  sun,  looking  very  wet  and 
forlorn.  But  his  fur  was  soon  dried,  and  he  raced 
about  the  grounds  like  a  mad  creature,  catching 
grasshoppers  and  flies,  and  worrying  almost  to 
death  a  highly  respectable  toad,  who  lived  near  the 
cellar  door,  outside/ 


140 


LITTLE  STUPID. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

LITTLE  STUPID. 

LL  this  time  I  had  felt  no  fears  for  the 
pretty  blue  eggs  in  our  nest  under  the 
eaves,  and  with  Mrs.  Robin  I  was  very- 
happy  watching  them  until  the  shells 
cracked  open  and  four  little  birds  appeared.  They 
were  our  first,  and  we  were  so  proud  and  fond  of 
them,  and  nursed  them  with  so  much  care,  until  one 
beautiful  summer  morning  when  we  thought  them 
old  enough  to  begin  to  learn  to  fly.  I  shall  never 
forget  that  day,  and  it  all  comes  back  to  me  now  so 
vividly,  the  bright  sunshine,  the  shadows  on  the 
grass,  the  ripe  cherries  on  the  trees,  and  our  little 
ones  hopping  about  on  the  walks,  and  then  flying  a 
few  feet.  I  had  taken  the  precaution  to  see  that 
Jim  was  asleep  in  his  chair,  and  so  had  no  fear  of 
him.  Three  of  our  children  were  sitting  on  the 
branch  of  a  tree  ;  but  the  fourth,  who  had  never 
seemed  quite  as  bright  as  the  others,  and  whom  we 


LITTLE  STUPID. 


141 


called  Stupid,  was  in  the  grass  pecking  away  at  a 
cherry,  while  I  was  hunting  about  for  more,  when 
suddenly  Mrs.  Robin  gave  a  terrible  scream,  and 
darted  past  me  so  swiftly  that  I  felt  kind  of  dizzy 
like  and  frightened,  and  flew  up  into  a  honeysuckle, 
where  I  was  out  of  danger,  and  could  look  around 
and  see  what  Mrs.  Robin  was  so  excited  about.  I 
never  thought  of  Stupid,  and  my  blood  curdled  in 
my  veins,  and  I  went  a  little  higher  up  in  the  honey- 
suckle, when  I  saw  that  Jim  had  him  in  his  mouth, 
and  was  bounding  through  the  grounds  with  Mrs. 
Robin  in  hot  pursuit,  uttering  such  dreadful  cries 
that  out  came  my  mistress  with  her  parasol,  and  the 
cook  with  the  broom,  and  the  housemaid  with  the 
duster,  and  all  took  after  Jim,  on  whose  back  Mrs. 
Robin  finally  pounced,  pecking  him  so  with  her 
beak  that  he  dropped  his  victim  and  turned  to 
defend  himself.  But  it  was  too  late  ;  poor  little 
Stupid  was  dead,  and  that  night  there  were  only 
three  little  birds  in  our  nest,  and  Mrs.  Robin  never 
spoke  to  me  but  once,  and  that  was  to  call  me  a 
coward  for  hiding  in  the  honeysuckle,  instead  of 
fighting  as  she  did.  If  there  was  anything  she  de- 
spised, it  was  a  sneak,  she  said,  and  for  a  whole 
week  she  was  very  cool  and  distant  toward  me,  and 
would  not  believe  me  at  all  when  I  told  her  how 


142 


LITTLE  STUPID. 


sorry  I  was  for  my  apparent  want  of  courage,  and 
that  I  stood  back  to  look  after  our  other  young 
ones,  and  see  that  no  harm  came  to  them,  while 
she,  and  my  mistress,  and  the  cook  and  the  house- 
maid did  battle  with  Jim. 

" ■  That  was  our  first  quarrel  and  our  first 
sorrow,  and  I  may  say  our  last,  for  before  we 
had  any  more  eggs  in  our  nest  the  horrid  Jim 
was  dead.  Just  whiat  ailed  him  I  never  knew, 
but  Mrs.  Robin  said  he  had  been  fed  too  high, 
and  possibly  she  was  right.  At  any  rate  he  grew 
very  thin,  and  sick,  and  weak,  and  we  watched  him 
anxiously,  feeling  glad  to  see  him  suffer  when  we 
remembered  Stupid,  but  sorry  for  our  mistress,  who 
nursed  him  so  carefully,  and  cried  that  morning 
when  they  found  him  dead  on  the  grass,  with  the 
rain  falling  heavily  upon  him.  They  buried  him 
under  the  plum-tree,  by  the  side  of  Fanny  ;  and 
there's  not  even  a  kitten  about  the  house  now,  for 
they  made  such  work  with  the  lace  curtains,  jump- 
ing at  each  other  through  them,  and  scratched  up 
the  flower-beds  so,  that  my  mistress  grew  tired  of 
them,  and  there's  nothing  in  that  garden  to  trouble 
us  birds.  But  our  nest  is  not  now  up  under  the 
eaves,  for  they  have  torn  the  house  down  over  our 
heads  two  or  three  times,  and  our  home  is  in  a  big 


LITTLE  STUPID. 


143 


horse-chestnut,  where  the  leaves  are  so  thick  that 
not  a  boy  in  the  neighborhood  has  ever  suspected 
where  we  live.' 

"  Here  the  robin  stopped  to  rest,  for  he  had 
talked  so  fast,  and  used  so  many  large  words,  that 
he  was  quite  out  of  breath  ;  and  as  by  that  time  the 
people  began  to  come  oat  on  the  piazza  for  the 
fresh  morning  air,  he  flew  away  to  a  live-oak-tree, 
and  began  to  sing  merrily. " 

Here  the  Red-bird  paused,  and  from  my  seat 
beneath  the  magnolia  I  looked  at  the  Paroquet  just 
in  time  to  detect  him  trying  to  hide  a  yawn,  as  if  he 
were  slightly  tired  with  Robin,  and  Stupid,  and 
Jim,  and  cats  generally.  But  perhaps  I  was  mis- 
taken, for  after  a  moment  he  asked  : 

"Where  is  Mrs.  Robin  now  ?  Do  you  know  if 
she  is  dead  or  alive  ?" 

"  Dead,"  answered  the  Red-bird.  "Robin  told 
me  that  she  was  with  him  two  winters  ago,  near 
Tallahassee,  and  that  they  built  a  nest  there — almost 
the  first  in  Florida,  for  as  a  general  thing  robins  do 
not  nest  here ;  but  they  did,  and  were  very  happy, 
too,  until  poor  Mrs.  Robin  was  killed — shot  by  one 
of  the  soldiers  who  used  to  be  so  thick  in  those 
parts." 

"It's  the  same  fellow  I  know,"  returned  the 


144 


LITTLE  STUPID. 


Paroquet,  "a  great  gossip  ;  but  go  on — you  cer- 
tainly have  more  to  tell." 

"Oh,  yes,  a  great  deal  more,"  said  Mrs.  Red  ; 
"but  my  story  takes  me  now  to  the  North,  for  my 
mistress  left  Florida  a  few  days  after  my  long  talk 
with  Robin  ;  and  after  a  three  days'  voyage  by  sea, 
during  which  I  was  so  sick  that  I  hoped  I  should 
die,  we  reached  a  place  they  called  New  York,  and 
there  I  changed  owners.  It  seems  my  mistress 
lived  very  far  to  the  West,  and  as  she  had  found  it 
some  trouble  to  travel  with  me,  she  gave  me  to  a 
friend  of  hers  whom  she  met  at  the  hotel,  and  who 
took  even  better  care  of  me  than  she  had  done,  for 
sometimes  she  had  forgotton  to  give  me  any  water 
for  an  entire  day,  and  had  otherwise  neglected  me. 
But  my  new  mistress  was  very  kind,  and  petted  me 
a  great  deal,  and  called  me  some  of  the  names 
Robin  had  said  his  mistress  gave  to  her  cat  Jim. 
I  missed  Robin,  and  wondered  if  I  should  ever  see 
him  again.  It  was  not  likely,  I  thought,  for  of 
course  his  home  and  mine  must  be  miles  apart. 

"We  were  going  home  very  soon,  I  heard  my 
mistress  say,  and  one  morning  we  left  the  noisy  city, 
and  when  we  stopped  it  was  so  late  and  so  dark  that 
I  could  not  see  where  we  were,  or  what  the  house 
was  like.  It  was  very  quiet  and  still,  and  I  was  so 
tired  and  worn  with  the  journey  that  I  slept  soundly 


LITTLE  STUPID. 


145 


until  morning,  and  was  only  awakened  by  the 
housemaid  when  she  came  to  open  the  shutters. 
It  was  a  funny  kind  of  a  house,  unlike  anything  I 
had  ever  seen  before,  which  was  not  strange,  per- 
haps, inasmuch  as  I  had  only  been  in  big  hotels. 
Still  I  think  it  was  different  from  most  houses,  for 
the  rooms  all  opened  into  each  other,  with  no  doors 
to  shut,  if  one  had  wished  to  shut  them  ;  and  there 
were  queer  nooks  and  corners,  everywhere,  and 
pleasant  places  to  sit,  and  read  the  books  upon  the 
shelves.  I  really  began  to  feel  quite  literary  and 
learned  myself,  there  were  so  many  books,  and 
pictures,  and  curious  things  from  foreign  parts,  the 
names  of  which  I  did  not  then  know,  but  I  learned 
these  afterward  from  hearing  the  people,  who  came 
to  see  my  mistress,  talk  about  them.  There  were 
Madonnas,  and  saints,  and  angels  from  Florence, 
and  Rome,  and  Dresden,  and  dancing  girls  from 
Pompeii,  and  Apollos,  and  Venuses,  and  vases,  and 
shells,  and  tables,  and  more  things  than  I  can  re- 
member now.  I  think  my  mistress  wrote  books, 
for  there  used  often  to  be  ink  spots  on  her  fingers, 
and  a  very  tired  look  on  her  face  when  she  came 
from  a  room  up-stairs  which  they  called  the  library, 
and  where  she  spent  most  of  her  mornings. 

"  It  must  have  been  April  when  I  went  to  my 
7 


146 


LITTLE  STUPID. 


new  home,  and  one  morning  I  saw  what  a  snow- 
storm was  for  J:he  first  time  in  my  life.  My  cage 
was  hung  in  such  a  pretty  little  nook  off  from  a 
bay-window  where  a  great  many  flowers  were  kept, 
and  there  were  windows  on  three  sides,  so  that  I 
could  look  out  into  the  yard,  and  see  the  big  snow- 
flakes  sifting  down  through  the  trees,  until  the 
ground  was  completely  covered  with  a  soft  carpet 
of  white,  and  the  little  birds  which  had  been  flitting 
about  for  several  days,  hid  themselves  in  the  ever- 
greens, and  I  heard  my  mistress  say  she  must  throw 
them  some  crumbs  if  the  weather  continued  so  cold. 
And  that  made  me  think  of  Mr.  Robin,  and  what 
he  had  told  me  of  his  mistress  feeding  the  birds. 
Where  was  he,  I  wondered,  and  where  was  his 
home,  and  I  wished  so  much  that  I  might  see  him 
again,  if  only  to  ask  if  there  was  any  news  from  the 
South,  where  I  left  all  that  made  life  pleasant  to  me. 
I  was  always  thinking  of  the  old  home  among  the 
jasmines,  and  it  was  especially  kept  in  my  mind  by 
a  stuffed  bird  which  hung  on  a  shelf  in  one  corner 
of  the  nook  where  my  cage  was  hung.  My  mistress 
brought  it  and  put  it  there  one  mornirg,  and  said 
to  me  very  friendly-like  :  '  There,  little  Reddy,  that 
will  remind  you  of  home,  and  who  knows  but  poor 
Greenie  came  from  the  same  place  with  yourself?' 


LITTLE  STUPID. 


147 


It  was  a  Paroquet,  with  such  lovely  green  and  golden 
feathers." 

"  With  a  brownish  tinge  on  thebreast  ?"  Mr. 
Paroquet  asked,  somewhat  anxiously,  and  Mrs.  Red 
replied  : 

"  Yes,  I  noticed  that  particularly — the  mottled 
appearance  of  the  breast,  where  there  was  a  spot  of 
bright  yellow." 

"  My  first  wife,  I'll  wager  my  head  !"  exclaimed 
Mr.  Paroquet,  very  much  awake  now,  and  excited, 
it  seemed  to  me,  for  he  flew  from  the  magnolia, 
where  he  had  been  sitting  in  a  sleepy  kind  of  way, 
to  the  orange-tree,  where  he  alighted  close  to 
Mrs.  Red,  and  continued  :  "  My  wife,  from  your 
description  ;  the  one  they  carried  away  and  stuffed, 
so  Robin  said.  Do  you  think  she  was  stuffed — 
think  she  was  really  dead,  or  will  she  be  coming 
back  some  day  when  I  don't  expect  her  ?" 

"Dead?  Of  course  she  was  dead,"  returned 
Mrs.  Red,  rather  scornfully.  "She  never  spoke 
nor  moved,  all  the  time  I  was  there,  but  just  stared 
at  me  with  those  dreadful  glass  eyes,  which  made 
me  feel  so  uncomfortable.  You  need  have  no  fears 
of  her  coming  back." 

"  Oh,  well,"  returned  Mr.  Paroquet,  brightening 
up  a  little.    "Not  that  I  shouldn't  be  very  glad  to 


148 


LITTLE  STUPID. 


see  her ;  very  glad,  of  course,  but  then,  you  see, 
there's  the  present  Mrs.  Paroquet,  who  might  not 
be  so  glad,  and  that  would  make  it  rather  awkward. 
Nobody  can  be  dead  a  year,  and  come  back,  without 
being  a  very  little  in  the  way,  for  they  are  sure  to 
find  their  places  filled,  or  at  least  bridged  over." 

To  me,  who,  you  will  remember,  was  sitting  on 
a  bench  listening  to  the  conversation  of  these  birds, 
the  Paroquet's  assertion  was  startling,  and  for  a  few 
moments  I  forgot  what  the  birds  were  saying,  while 
I  asked  myself  : 

"  Is  it  true  that  if  I  were  to  die,  and  go  away  into 
the  darkness  and  silence  of  the  gave,  and  then  after 
a  year  could  come  back  to  the  friends  who  had  wept 
so  bitterly  when  I  left  them,  is  it  true  that  I  should 
find  myself  in  the  way — my  place  filled,  or  bridged 
over  with  new  loves  and  interests,,  which  my  sudden 
return  would  disturb  and  mar  ?" 

And  then  I  thought  of  a  little  blue-eyed,  golden- 
haired  girl,  whom  we  called  Nellie,  and  whose  grave 
had  been  on  the  hill-side  more  than  a  dozen  years. 
If  she  could  come  back  again,  would  she  not  find 
a  warm  welcome  from  the  mother  who  never  men- 
tions her  without  the  hot  tears  springing  to  her 
eyes!  Would  Nellie  be  in  the  way?  Oh,  no,  not 
the  little  Nellie  who  died  that  winter  day  so  many 


LITTLE  STUPID. 


149 


years  ago,  the  child  Nellie,  whose  chair  is  in  the 
corner  yet,  and  whose  picture  looks  down  upon  us 
from  the  wall.  She  could  never  be  in  the  way, 
though  the  woman,  the  Nellie  of  twenty  years,  might 
be  strange  at  first  to  the  mother  twelve  years  older 
now,  with  fuller  and  larger  experiences  of  life,  and 
habits  of  making  plans  with  Nellie  left  out  of  them; 
but  there  could  be  no  real  jarring  of  new  loves  and 
interests  ;  there  could  only  be  a  deep  joy  and 
thankfulness  for  the  Nellie  alive  again.  So  I 
reasoned — so  I  decided,  and  then  turned  back  to  the 
birds,  who  were  still  at  their  talk,  and  had  passed 
from  the  snow-storm  of  April  to  the  month  of  May, 
when  Mrs.  Red's  cage  was  first  hung  in  a  mountain 
ash  which  grew  in  the  garden  of  her  new  home. 


150      BLACK  EYES   AND   BRIGHT  HAIR. 


CHAPTER  V. 

BLACK    EYES    AND    BRIGHT  HAIR. 

HE  day  was  so  bright,"  she  said,  "  and 
the  grass  so  green,  and  the  yard  so 
beautiful,  that  for  a  time  I  could  only 
look  around  me  and  admire  the  many 
pretty  things  scattered  about  the  grounds.  And  as 
I  looked  it  seemed  to  me  I  must  have  been  there 
before,  everything  was  so  familiar,  even  to  the  iron 
deer  with  Southern  moss  upon  his  horns.  Had  I 
dreamed  of  all  this,  or  what  was  it  ?  I  asked,  and 
my  head  was  beginning  to  ache  with  trying  to  recall 
something  in  the  past,  when  suddenly  a  voice,  which 
I  remembered  perfectly,  called  out : 

"  '  Halloo,  Miss  Red,  if  this  don't  beat  all.  Here 
you  are  away  up  here  on  my  own  ground.  How 
did  it  happen  ?  And  what  do  you  think  of  the 
North  now  ?' 

"  It  was  Robin,  of  course,  and  to  my  great  delight 
I  found  that  I  was  actually  in  the  very  garden  he  had 


BLACK  EYES   AND    BRIGHT   HAIR.  15: 


described  to  me,  that  my  mistress  was  his  mistress, 
and  that  his  nest  was  up  in  one  of  the  tall  horse 
chestnuts,  which  grew  at  the  entrance  of  the 
grounds.  And  there  was  another  Mrs.  Robin  now, 
a  pretty  little  bird,  who  arched  her  neck  so  grace- 
fully and  looked  so  shyly  at  me  from  her  bright 
eyes  when  Robin  brought  and  introduced  her  to 
me.  They  were  very  happy  together — Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Robin — and  I  in  part  forgot  my  own  sorrows 
and  loneliness  in  watching  them  day  by  day  as  they 
flew  in  and  out  of  the  nice  soft  nest  in  the  chestnut- 
tree,  and  made  wide  circles  in  the  air  just  as  I  used 
to  do  away  down  on  the  river. 

"  At  last  Robin  came  to  me  with  a  very  impor- 
tant air,  and  told  me  there  were  four  blue  eggs  in 
the  nest,  and  Mrs.  Robin  was  sitting  on  them  to 
keep  them  warm,  and  he  was  going  to  hunt  worms 
for  her  from  the  mound  of  earth  just  turned  up  in 
the  garden.  They  were  Mrs.  Robin's  first  eggs, 
and  she  scarcely  left  them  at  all  until  the  shells 
were  broken  and  I  heard  there  were  four  young 
birds  in  the  nest.  Oh,  how  proud  little  Mrs.  Robin 
was  !  What  care  she  took  of  her  babies — more  care, 
indeed,  than  Robin,  who  was  growing  old  and  fat, 
and  indisposed  for  work,  and  who  sometimes  called 
her  nervous  and  fussy,  and  told  her  that  nothing 


152      BLACK  EYES   AND    BRIGHT  HATE. 


could  harm  her  children  as  long  as  they  staid  up  in 
that  tall  tree.  Still  Mrs.  Robin' was  very  watchful 
and  vigilant,  and  looked  askance  at  every  boy  who 
passed  on  the  walk,  and  even  at  Harry  and  Grey, 
and  Gi fiord,  little  boys  who  came  sometimes  to  play 
in  the  garden,  and  who  could  no  more  have  climbed 
to  the  nest  than  they  could  have  gone  to  the  steeple 
of  the  church  just  showing  above  the  trees  in  the 
distance. 

'  At  last,  when  the  birds  were  old  enough  to  be 
taught  to  fly,  an  event  occurred  which  threw  Mrs. 
Robin  into  a  wild  state  of  excitement.  I  had 
several  times  heard  my  mistress  and  the  cook  talk- 
ing together  of  some  people  who  were  coming  to 
spend  a  portion  of  the  summer,  and  I  had  caught 
the  names  of  Florence  and  Johnnie,  but  who 
Florence  and  Johnnie  were  I  did  not  know  or  par- 
ticularly care,  for  it  mattered  little  to  me  who  came 
or  went.  I  was  never  molested,  and  my  daily  wants 
were  supplied  with  great  regularity.  And  still  I 
did  have  some  little  curiosity  with  regard  to  the 
expected  guests,  on  whose  account  the  whole  house- 
hold was,  for  a  few  days,  in  an  unusual  commotion. 
On  the  afternoon  when  they  arrived  my  cage  was 
hanging  in  a  little  archway  at  the  rear  of  the 
grounds,  and  so  I  heard  and  saw  nothing  until 


BLACK  EYES   AND   BRIGHT  HAIR.  153 


Robin,  who  had  been  absent  for  a  few  hours,  came 
home,  and  stopped  for  a  moment  on  a  shrub  near 
me  to  rest  and  chat  awhile,  as  he  was  in  the  habit 
of  doing.  In  fact,  I  had  sometimes  thought  that 
Mrs.  Robin,  whom,  since  the  birth  of  the  birds,  he 
had  called  little  Motherdy,  while  she  in  return  had 
called  him  Fatherdy,  was  more  than  half  jealous  of 
me  because  of  Robin's  sociability.  At  all  events  he 
never  sat  near  me  long  before  she  joined  him  and 
made  some  excuse  to  get  him  away.  So  I  was  not 
surprised  to  see  her  flying  toward  us  from  the 
cherry-tree,  where  she  had  been  pecking  away  at  a 
half-ripe  cherry.  As  she  came  near  I  saw  at  a 
glance  that  something  was  the  matter,  and  so  did 
Robin,  and  he  called  out  in  his  cheery,  teasing  way: 
" 1  Well,  little  Motherdy,  what's  up  now,  that 
your  feathers  seem  so  ruffled,  and  you  so  excited  ? 
Anything  happened  to  the  young  ones,  or  what  is 
the  matter  ?' 

" 1  Matter  V    she    repeated.      i  Matter  enough. 

What  do  you  think  has  come  right  into  our  midst 

to  worry  our  birds  to  death  ?' 

"  '  Cats,  maybe,'  he  said  :  and  she  replied  : 

"  '  Cats  !    No,  something  worse  than  that.  Two 

children,  boy  and  girl,  and  by  the   looks  of  the 

luggage  they  have  come  to  stay,  and  there's  an  end 
7* 


154      BLACK  EYES  AND   BRIGHT  HAIR. 


of  all  peace  for  us.  Why,  the  boy  has  already  spied 
me,  and  actually  thought  he  could  reach  me,  and  I 
on  the  top  of  the  Brockway  house.  You  would  far 
better  have  put  our  nest  in  the  evergreens  across  the 
street,  where  I  wanted  it.  But  no,  you  must  stay  in 
that  old  place  just  because  you  used  to  live  there 
with  the  other  one,  who  I  wish  was  here  now.  Such 
a  time  as  I  am  going  to  have  with  those  children  ! 
Afraid  for  my  life  and  the  babies  every  minute  V 

"  I  had  known  before  that  Motherdy,  though  a 
nice  little  thing,  had  a  temper,  and  that  she  was 
sometimes  given  to  being  jealous  of  the  first  Mrs. 
Robin,  and  that  she  had  opposed  the  old  nest  in  the 
chestnut  tree,  because  Mrs.  Robin  ist  had  lived 
there.  But  she  was  so  pretty,  and  had  such  grace- 
ful ways,  that  Robin  never  lost  his  temper,  no 
matter  how  unreasonable  she  might  be,  and  now  he 
only  laughed  good-humoredly  and  made  light  of 
her  fears,  saying  his  mistress  would  never  allow 
any  one  to  disturb  the  birds,  and  as  for  the  ever- 
greens across  the  street,  where  she  had  wanted  him 
to  build  a  new  nest,  she  would  have  been  no  safer 
there,  for  was  not  Harry  over  there,  and  Grey,  and 
were  they  not  both  larger  than  this  Chicago  boy 
who  had  so  alarmed  her  ? 

"  '  You  are  nervous,  little  Motherdy,'  he  said. 


BLACK  EYES   AND    BRIGHT  HAIR.  155 


'You  have  boy  on  the  brain.  Hadn't  you  better  go 
home  ?  Some  boy  may  have  stolen  your  babies, 
nest  and  all/ 

"  Motherdy  was  too  angry  to  reply,  and  flew 
away  rapidly,  followed  soon  by  Robin,  who,  I  sup- 
pose, made  his  peace  with  her,  for  they  were  out 
together  early  the  next  morning,  hunting  for  worms 
and  grasshoppers,  and  talking  lovingly  in  the 
language  which  birds  understand.  And  still  I 
could  see  that  both  were  rather  anxious  for  the  ap- 
pearance of  the  children,  Florence  and  Johnnie, 
and  so  was  I,  for  I  had  heard  the  sound  of  voices 
from  the  house — sweet,  musical  voices,  such  as 
children  always  "have — and  I  thought  I  could  tell 
which  was  Florence  and  which  was  Johnnie,  for 
one  I  knew  was  two  or  three  years  older  than  the 
other. 

"  At  last  they  came  into  the  grounds  with  a  laugh 
and  a  bound,  and  from  the  ridge-pole  of  the  Brock- 
way  house  Fatherdy  and  Motherdy  were  watching 
them,  while  I,  in  my  cage,  looked  eagerly  and  curi- 
ously at  them.  How  pretty  they  were  in  their  white 
dresses  and  gay  sashes — Florence  with  her  pale  face 
and  starry  eyes  of  black,  which  seemed  to  see  every- 
thing at  once,  and  Johnnie  with  his  great  round 
blue  eyes,  the  color  of  the  robin's  eggs,  and  his 


156      BLACK  EYES   AND    BRIGHT  HAIR. 


beautiful  golden  hair  falling  in  curls  about  his 
neck.  '  Black-Eyes '  and  '  Bright-Hair '  I  named 
them  at  once,  and  I  watched  them  as  they  started  to 
run  up  the  gravel  walk.  Bright-Hair,  whose  little 
feet  had  just  commenced  to  walk,  fell  down,  of 
course,  and  bumped  his  nose  and  soiled  his  clean 
white  dress  ;  but  he  did  not  seem  to  mind  it  at  all, 
but,  man-like,  got  up  again  and  started  after  Black- 
Eyes,  who  had  spied  a  little  arbor  under  an  apple- 
tree,  which  she  decided  was  just  the  place  for  the 
mud  pies  she  was  longing  to  make,  as  no  child's 
life  in  the  country  is  complete  without  a  trial  of 
making  and  baking  pies.  Then  she  saw  me  next? 
and  both  came  rushing  to  me,  and  Bright-Hair 
wanted  to  '  take,  take,'  and  stretched  his  little  hands 
toward  me,  and  tried  to  climb  the  lattice,  in  the 
archway  of  which  I  was  hanging.  But  I  was  far 
above  his  reach,  and  looked  down  upon  him  fear- 
lessly as  he  tried  in  vain  to  get  me. 

'*  What  lovely  children  they  were,  and  those  were 
very  happy  days  when  I  watched  them  flitting  about 
the  grounds  or  making  their  mud  pies  in  the  grape- 
vine arbor.  I  think  the  cook  must  have  been  very 
good-natured,  for  she  gave  up  her  muffin-rings,  and 
sponge-cake  tins,  and  iron  spoons,  and  a  pan  and 
dipper  for  the  bakery,  and  even  brought  a  box  of 


BLACK  EYES   AND   BRIGHT  HAIR.  157 


dirt,  which  little  Florence  called  flour  ;  and  then 
the  mud  pie  business  began  in  earnest,  and  Johnnie's 
fat  white  arms  were  besmeared  above  his  elbows, 
and  his  face  was  covered  with  mud,  and  Florence 
was  not  much  better,  as  in  her  long-sleeved  gingham 
apron  she  worked  industriously  at  her  pies  and 
cakes,  which  were  made  into  wonderful  shapes,  and 
baked  on  a  griddle  in  the  sun. 

"Sometimes  Maggie  and  Harry,  and  Grey  and 
Sophie  and  Louise  came  to  help,  but  the  girls  were 
almost  too  old  for  mud  pies,  and  Grey  was  afraid  of 
soiling  his  clothes,  and  Harry  fonder  of  chasing  a 
kitten  which  had  strayed  into  the  yard  the  day  after 
the  children  came,  and  which  my  mistress  kept  as  a 
plaything  for  them,  and  so  Black-Eyes  and  Bright- 
Hair  had  the  pies  mostly  to  themselves.  It  was  diffi- 
cult to  tell  which  Bright-Hair  liked  the  best — the  pies 
or  the  kitten,  which  he  called  the  i  cart?  or  the  little 
robins,  which  were  just  learning  to  fly,  and  who  hop- 
ped about  in  a  very  stupid  way,  while  little  Motherdy 
watched  narrowly  and  nervously  to  see  that  no  harm 
came  to  them,  either  from  the  cat,  or  Bright-Hair, 
who  always  started  for  them  when  he  saw  them 
in  the  grass,  and  seemed  greatly  disturbed  because 
they  flew  away  just  before  he  had  reached  them. 
"  One  afternoon  there  was  a  garden  party  for  the 


158      BLACK   EYES   AND   BRIGHT  HAIR. 


children,  and  I  think  I  never  saw  a  finer  sight  than 
it  was  to  see  all  those  little  girls  and  boys  in  their 
best  clothes,  which  did  not  look  quite  so  fresh  and 
nice  when  they  went  home,  as  when  they  came.  Oh, 
what  fine  times  they  had  playing  upon  the  lawn, 
and  in  the  different  arbors,  which  were  fitted  up 
with  dollies'  furniture,  and  called  by  different 
names.  There  was  the  'Doll's  Drawing-room,' 
where  the  larger  dolls  sat  solemn  and  still  in  their 
chairs,  and  there  was  a  sleeping-room  for  the  dolls, 
and  Apple-Tree  Hotel  and  a  restaurant  near  by, 
where  the  children  had  macaroons,  and  took  weak 
lemonade  through  straws  ;  but  the  thing  which 
pleased  them  most  was  the  wheel  chair,  in  which  all 
the  children  had  a  ride  before  the  day  was  done. 

"  That  afternoon,  Motherdy  kept  her  robins  out 
of  sight,  aad  did  not  allow  them  once  to  fly  down 
into  the  grass,  lest  some  harm  should  befall  them. 
She  was  not  afraid  of  Bright-Hair  nor  Black-Eyes, 
nor  Harry,  nor  Grey,  nor  Maggie,  nor  Gifford,  she 
said,  but  she  distrusted  some  of  the  larger  boys,  who 
ran  so  fast  and  made  so  much  noise,  and  she  kept 
her  children  at  home  greatly  against  their  will. 
They  were  not  afraid,  and  I  think  had  really 
become  attached  to  Black-Eyes  and  Bright-Hair, 
and  so  had  the  Fatherdy  and  Motherdy  birds,  who 


BLACK  EYES   AND   BRIGHT  HAIR.  159 


liked  to  see  them  round,  and  thought  the  grounds 
were  prettier  because  they  were  there.  I  thought 
so,  too,  and  when  at  last  their  father  came  and  took 
them  away,  I  felt  more  lonely  and  desolate  than 
I  had  done  in  weeks,  while  my  friends,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Robin,  with  their  four  young  ones,  flew  up  to 
the  ridge-pole  of  the  house,  and  watched  the  huge 
thing  which  bore  them  away  until  it  was  out  of 
sight,  and  there  was  nothing  to  be  seen  but  a  ring 
of  smoke  away  to  the  west,  where  they  were  gone. 
I  remember  that  my  mistress  came  out  to  the  arbor 
where  the  children  had  played,  and  cried  a  little  as 
she  picked  up  the  spoons,  and  plates  and  dishes 
which  had  been  used  for  their  mud  pies,  some  of 
which  were  still  baking  in  the  sun. 

"  I  pass  rapidly  over  the  remainder  of  the 
summer  and  the  fall,  when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Robin 
bade  me  good-by,  and,  with  their  family  started  for 
the  South.  How  I  longed  to  go  with  them,  and 
how  many  messages  I  sent  to  Mr.  Red  and  my  own 
little  ones,  should  they  chance  to  meet  them.  And 
then  the  days  were  very  long  and  dreary,  until 
little  Florence  came  again  to  pass  the  holidays  with 
her  auntie,  and  there  was  a  Christmas-tree  in  the 
church,  and  I  was  taken  there  in  my  cage  and  hung 
near  the  chancel,  where  I  could  see  all  the  fine 


160      BLACK  EYES   AND   BRIGHT  HAIR. 


doings  which  were  so  new  and  strange  to  me.  But 
I  soon  began  to  understand  it,  and  watched  the 
ladies  with  a  great  deal  of  interest  as  they  filled  the 
tree  with  every  conceivable  toy  for  the  children, 
who,  when  it  was  done,  came  crowding  in,  and 
filled  nearly  half  the  church.  What  carols  they 
sang  of  the  i  Wonderful  Night,'  and  '  Jesus  of 
Bethlehem,'  and  how  the  organ  filled  the  church 
and  even  made  the  floor  tremble,  as  the  organist 
played  with  both  hands  and  feet,  and  the  children's 
voices  rose  louder  and  clearer  as  they  sang  of  a 
Saviour's  birth.  I  really  began  to  feel  quite  like  a 
churchman  myself,  or  at  least  like  a  church  bird, 
though  I  did  wonder  why  I  was  there.  But  I  soon 
found  out,  for  as  name  after  name  was  called,  and 
the  children  came  trooping  up  to  receive  their  gifts, 
I  heard  at  last  little  Florence  called,  and,  to  my 
surprise,  1  was  given  to  her  as  a  Christmas  gift  from 
her  auntie.  I  knew  that  she  was  very  fond  of  me, 
and  called  me  a  great  many  pet  names,  and  gave  me 
more  things  to  eat  than  I  could  possibly  take,  but 
I  had  never  dreamed  of  belonging  to  her,  and  when 
I  found  that  I  was  to  go  with  her  to  her  home  in 
Chicago,  where  Bright-Hair  lived,  I  felt  at  first 
sorry  to  leave  my  former  mistress,  wTho  had  been 
so  kind  to  me.    And  there  was  Robin,  whom  I 


BLACK  EYES   AND   BRIGHT  HAIR.  161 


might  never  see  again,  and  the  beautiful  garden 
where  I  had  spent  so  many  pleasant  days.  But  it 
could  not  be  helped,  and  within  a  week  or  two  I 
was  hanging  in  a  bay-window  in  my  new  home  in 
the  city,  and  I  was  very  happy  there,  too,  with 
Black-Eyes  and  Bright-Hair  for  my  companions. 
Children  do  cheer  up  a  house  wonderfully,  and  I 
learned  to  listen  to  their  merry  voices,  and  wait 
anxiously  for  their  appearance  in  the  morning. 
As  the  winter  wore  away  and  the  spring  came  on, 
little  Florence,  who  was  always  a  pale,  delicate 
child,  seemed  to  grow  paler  and  thinner  every  day, 
until  at  last  she  refused  to  eat  anything,  and  in  the 
summer  they  took  us  all  to  their  country  home,  a 
few  miles  from  the  city,  where  she  improved 
rapidly,  and  ran  about  the  grounds  as  merrily  as 
ever.  But  when  the  autumn  came  and  the  winds 
blew  cold  from  the  lake,  she  began  to  droop  again, 
and  I  heard  them  say  they  must  take  her  South, 
where  it  was  always  warm  and  sunny. 

"Then  my  heart  began  to  beat  so  fast  with 
wondering  if  she  would  take  me  with  her.  I  half 
believed  she  would,  she  loved  me  so  much — and  she 
did,  and  we  came  to  the  same  hotel  where  I  was  first 
a  prisoner,  and  my  cage  was  hung  again  in  the  old 
place,  where  through  the  trees  of  oak  and  orange  I 


162      BLACK   EYES   AND    BRIGHT  HAIR. 


could  see  glimpses  of  the  river,  and  the  boats  as 
they  went  up  and  down." 

'  Really,  now,  it  is  all  quite  like  a  story.  Have 
you  seen  Robin  ?  and  how  did  you  get  away  ?"  Mr. 
Paroquet  said,  hopping  up  and  down,  first  on  one 
foot  and  then  on  the  other,  as  if  he  were  growing 
tired. 

Mrs.  Red  noticed  this,  and  hastened  on. 

"Yes,  I  have  seen  Robin  ;  it  was  up  the  river, 
where  he  is  spending  the  winter  with  Mrs.  Robin, 
who  is  as  bright,  and  pretty,  and  spirited  as  ever — - 
but  I  must  tell  you  how  I  came  to  be  up  the  river 
myself.  My  dear  little  mistress,.  Florence,  knew 
that  my  home  was  once  in  this  part  of  the  country, 
and  a  few  days  ago,  when  she  gave  me  my  breakfast 
of  seeds  and  figs,  she  talked  to  me  in  her  usual 
loving  way,  and  said  : 

"  '  You  know  my  mamma  says  I  am  not  getting 
well  here  as  fast  as  I  ought,  and  she  is  going  to  take 
me  to  St.  Augustine,  down  by  the  sea,  and  so,  poor 
little  Reddie,  I  love  you  ever  and  ever  so  much,  but 
I've  been  thinking  and  thinking  how  dreadful  it 
would  be  for  me  to  be  shut  up  as  you  are,  and  taken 
away  where  I  never  could  see  my  papa,  or  mamma, 
or  Johnnie  any  more.  Maybe,  though,  you  haven't 
a  papa,  or  mamma,  or  Johnnie.    I  guess  birds  never 


BLACK  EYES   AND   BRIGHT  HAIR.  163 


have  such  things,  like  us  girls,  but  you  may  have 
had  some  little  birds  in  some  nest  somewhere,  and 
maybe  you  can  find  your  way  home  to  that  nest,  and 
so,  you  precious  old  Reddie,  I  am  going  to  make 
you  a  present  of  your  freedom.  I  am  going  to  open 
the  door  of  your  cage,  and  let  you  go — so  !' 

"And  here  she  opened  the  door  suddenly,  and 
gave  the  cage  a  shake  which  sent  me  out  upon  the 
piazza. 

"  If  I  had  stopped  a  minute  to  consider,  I  might 
have  hesitated  about  leaving  the  cage  which  had  been 
my  home  so  long,  and  to  which  I  was  really  very 
much  attached,  but  jast  as  I  hopped  out  upon  the 
floor,  some  children  came  running  round  the  corner 
and  frightened  me  so,  that  T  instantly  flew  to  the  top 
of  a  tree  near  by.  It  was  my  first  experiment  in  fly- 
ing for  almost  two  years,  and  it  seemed  so  natural, 
so  delightful,  to  beat  the  air  with  my  wings  once 
more,  and  freedom  seemed  so  sweet  that  I  could  not 
go  back,,  but  sat  for  a  moment  looking  at  the  empty 
cage  and  my  little  mistress  standing  by  it  with  a 
sorry  look  on  her  face,  as  if  she  had  not  quite  ex- 
pected me  to  leave  her  so  readily.  Then  I  thought 
of  the  nest  in  the  jasmine,  and  of  Mr.  Red,  and  the 
happy  life  I  had  lived  with  him  among  the  orange- 
trees  and  magnolias,  and  I  said  to  myself,  c  I  must 


164      BLACK  EYES   AND    BRIGHT  HAIR. 


go  there/  and  while  my  mistress  was  looking  up  at 
me  with  those  bright  black  eyes  of  hers,  I  flew  away 
as  fast  as  my  wings  could  take  me,  in  the  direction 
of  my  old  home.  But  not  being  accustomed  to  fly- 
ing, I  soon  grew  tired,  and  stopped  many  times  to 
rest  and  look  down  from  some  tall  tree  upon  the 
river,  which  had  never  seemed  so  beautiful  to  me  as 
it  did  that  day. 


CONCLUSION. 


165 


CHAPTER  VI. 

CONCLUSION. 

T  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  I 
reached  the  clump  of  jasmine  where  I 
had  left  my  little  ones,  and  though 
I  knew  that  by  this  time  they  were 
grown-up  birds,  and  possibly  had  families  of  their 
own,  I  could  not  help  feeling  as  if  I  should  find 
them  just  as  I  had  left  them,  hungry,  noisy,  and  so 
glad  to  see  me.  It  was  very  still  in  the  thicket,  and 
not  a  single  bird  of  any  kind  was  to  be  seen.  But 
this  did  not  surprise  me  much,  for  it  was  the  time 
of  day  when  the  old  birds  would  naturally  be  off 
after  the  little  ones'  supper.  They  would  soon  be 
coming  back,  and  I  thought  how  delighted  Mr.  Red 
would  be,  and  how  startled,  too,  when  he  found  me 
waiting  for  him  just  as  I  used  to  do." 

"  I  reckon  he  was  startled,  too,"  interrupted  the 
Paroquet.  "But  pray  hurry  on.  I  was  getting  a 
little  tired,  but  I'm  all  attention  now.    You  waited, 


166 


CONCLUSION. 


you  say,  for  Mr.  Red  to  come,  and  didn't  you  go 
near  the  old  nest  till  he  came  ?" 

"Yes,"  returned  Mrs.  Red,  "I  went  to  the  nest 
the  first  thing,  and  found  it  just  as  I  had  seen  it  in 
my  dreams  so  many  times,  and  right  at  the  bottom, 
huddled  together,  were  three  little  ones  about  the 
size  of  mine  when  I  left  them.  And  for  an  instant 
I  forgot  myself  and  thought  they  were  mine,  and 
flew  down  so  close  to  them  that  they  awoke  and 
began  to  scramble  toward  the  top  of  the  nest  and 
open  their  mouths  as  if  they  were  hungry.  On  the 
right  wing  of  two  of  them  little  brown  spots  were 
beginning  to  show,  and  then  I  knew,  and  grew  sick 
and  faint,  and  more  sorry  than  I  had  been  since  the 
day  I  was  stolen  away,  and  with  such  a  different 
kind  of  sorrow,  too. 

"  Always  before  in  the  midst  of  my  sharpest  pain 
there  had  been  a  kind  of  comfort  in  thinking  that 
Mr.  Red  remembered  and  longed  for  me  just  as  I 
longed  for  and  remembered  him,  but  now  I  knew 
better.  Those  birds  in  the  nest  were  not  my  birds. 
Spotted-Wing  was  their  mother.  I  was  forgotten  ; 
my  place  was  filled  ;  nobody  wanted  me  there,  and 
I  felt  as  if  my  throat  would  burst  with  the  lump 
which  kept  rising  in  it. 

"  And  while  I  waited,  sitting  high  above  the 


CONCLUSION.  167 

nest  where  I  could  look  down  into  it,  there  was  a 
whiz  and  whir  in  the  air,  and  Spotted-Wing  came 
home,  looking  a  little  older  than  when  I  saw  her 
last,  but  quite  as  pretty  and  very  happy.  I  was 
obliged  to  own  that  to  myself,  as  I  sat  and  watched 
her  feeding  her  young  ones,  and  every  now  and 
then  turning  up  her  head  as  if  listening  for  some 
one.  Just  so  I  used  to  listen  and  just  so  I  used  to 
act  when  Mr.  Red  was  coming  home,  as  he  did  at 
last,  and  Spotted-Wing  flew  out  a  little  way  to 
meet  him,  and  rubbed  her  bill  against  his,  and 
kept  at  his  side  as  he  flew  so  near  to  me  that  the  air 
set  in  motion  by  his  wings  stirred  my  feathers,  and  I 
could  have  touched  him  had  I  tried. 

"  Oh,  little  did  he  dream  who  it  was  that  sat  and 
watched  him  until  it  grew  dark,  and  all  was  still  in 
the  dear  old  nest  which  was  once  my  home.  When 
I  tffculd  no  longer  see  him  and  knew  that  he  was 
asleep,  I  said  good-by  to  him  forever,  and  flew 
away  to  the  palm-tree;  where  I  staid  till  morning, 
and  then  I  started  down  the  river,  caring  nothing 
where  I  went  or  what  became  of  me,  and  feeling  an 
indescribable  longing  for  the  cage  I  had  quitted 
and  the  little  mistress  I  had  left. 

"  It  was  then  that  I  came  suddenly  upon  Robin, 
who  is  living  near  Green  Cove  Spring,  and  who 


168 


CONCLUSION. 


was  both  astonished  and  delighted  to  see  me.  My 
face  must  have  told  him  that  I  knew  the  worst,  for 
he  only  said  : 

"  6  Poor  little  Reddie,  it  is  rather  hard,  but  it's 
the  way  of  the  world.  I  s'pose  you  didn't  see  your 
own  children.  One  of  them  is  dead,  and  the  others 
are  far  up  the  river,  near  Enterprise,  with  families 
of  their  own,  and  as  likely  birds  as  you  could  wish 
to  see.  They  think  you  dead,  and  so  does  Mr.  Red, 
of  course.' 

'Both  Robin  and  Motherdy  were  very  kind  to 
me,  and  I  staid  with  them  all  that  day  and  night, 
and  they  brought  me  my  supper  and  tried  to  cheer 
me  up,  but  nothing  can  ever  make  me  happy  again 
unless  it  be  to  find  myself  in  the  cage  once  more, 
with  Florence  and  Johnnie  to  pet  me.  But  even 
that  pleasure  is  denied  me,  for  when  I  left  Robin  I 
went  back  to  Jacksonville  and  the  hotel,  hoping  to 
find  my  mistress.  But  she  had  gone  down  by  the 
sea,  and  it  is  a  long  way  there,  and  I  might  get  lost, 
and  not  find  her  after  all,  so  I  have  given  it  up,  and 
what  I  shall  do  with  myself  now  I  am  sure  I  don't 
know." 

"  Do  ?"  repeated  the  Paroquet,  who  began  to 
evince  a  friendliness  I  had  not  given  him  credit  for. 
u  Why,  make  the  best  of  it,  of  course,  and  if  you 


CONCLUSION. 


169 


are  so  anxious  to  find  Black-Eyes  and  Bright-Hair 
again,  go  over  to  St.  Augustine  after  them.  It  is 
not  so  very  far  :  I've  been  there.  I  know  the  way. 
I'll  go  with  you  and  start  now,  to-day,  if  you  like. 
It's  up  the  river  a  ways,  and  then  across  the  wildest, 
swampiest  piece  of  country  you  ever  saw.  But  St. 
Augustine  is  lovely — some  like  that  North  you  are 
so  delighted  with,  and  maybe  you  will  make  up  your 
mind  to  stay  there  if  you  do  not  find  the  children/' 

"And  I  almost  know  I  shall  not."  returned  Mrs. 
Red,  who  seemed  to  be  quite  discouraged,  "  for  how 
shall  I  know  where  to  look  for  them?" 

"  Look  !  Why,  look  everywhere,  at  all  the  hotels 
and  boarding-houses,  but  mostly  at  the  Old  Fort 
and  in  a  square  they  call  the  Plaza.  Children  all 
like  to  play  there.  We  shall  find  them,  don't  you 
fear,  so  come  ;  it  is  getting  almost  noon,  and  we 
ought  to  be  off.  We  will  fly  across  the  river  first, 
and  then  hunt  a  bug  or  two  for  dinner,  before  we 
start  again,  so  here  goes."  And  spreading  his 
beautiful  green  wings,  the  Paroquet  flew  swiftly 
away,  followed  by  Mrs.  Red,  who  moved  more 
slowly,  for  she  was  tired,  and  had  not  much  heart 
or  courage  left. 

I  was  half  afraid  she  would  drop  into  the  water, 
but  the  Paroquet  evidently  encouraged  her  to  exert 


170 


CONCLUSION. 


herself  as  much  as  possible,  and  at  last  I  was  glad 
to  see  that  they  were  fairly  over  the  river,  and  rest- 
ing on  a  live-oak  tree.  Then  I  started  as  from  a 
dream,  and  wondered  if  it  were  really  true  that  I 
had  beard  birds  talk  together,  and  if  poor  Reddie 
would  ever  find  Florence  and  Johnnie  again,  and 
be  happy  once  more.  I  hoped  she  would,  and  that 
I  might  know  it ;  and  I  did,  for  when  the  spring 
came,  and,  with  many  other  travelers,  I  started  for 
home  on  the  City  of  Savannah,  I  noticed  upon  the 
boat  two  lovely  children,  a  boy  and  girl,  one  with 
beautiful  black  eyes,  and  the  other  with  eyes  as  blue 
as  the  April  sky  over  our  heads.  Fornce  the  little 
boy  called  his  sister,  and  then  I  guessed  at  once  I 
had  found  Black-Eyes  and  Bright-Hair,  and  remem- 
bering Mrs.  Red  I  said  to  the  little  girl  one  day  : 

"  Isn't  your  name  Florence  and  your  brother's 
name  Johnnie,  and  don't  you  live-  in  Chicago  ?" 

"  Why,  yes,"  she  answered,  looking  curiously  at 
me.    "  How  did  you  know  that  ?" 

"  Oh,  I  guessed  it,"  I  said,  and  then  I  added  : 
"  Did  you  ever  have  a  Red-bird  in  a  cage,  which  you 
let  go  one  morning  ?" 

"  Yes,"  she  replied  ;  but  I  think  I  have  her  again. 
I'm  almost  sure  of  it.  She  is  in  my  stateroom. 
Don't  you  want  to  see  her  ?" 


CONCLUSION. 


171 


Of  course  I  wanted  to  see  her,  though  as  Red- 
birds  are  much  alike,  I  knew  I  could  not  tell  if  this 
were  the  one  whose  sad  story  I  had  heard  on 
Christmas  morning.  But  when  Florence  told  me 
the  particulars  of  its  recapture  I  was  sure  of  it,  and 
rejoiced  that  poor  little  Reddie  was  happy  with 
its  friends,  Florence  and  Johnnie.  They  were  at 
the  Old  Fort  in  St.  Augustine  one  morning, 
Florence  said,  and  one  of  the  Indians  kept  as 
prisoners  there,  was  teaching  her  how  to  use  the 
bow  and  arrow,  while  Johnnie  stood  by  begging  to 
"  soot  too"  when  suddenly  a  Red-bird,  which  seemed 
to  be  very  tired,  flew  down  at  her  feet,  and  kept 
hopping  around  close  to  her,  while  Johnnie  tried  to 
catch  it,  and  the  young  Indian  suggested  making  it 
a  mark  to  shoot  at.  But  from  this  Florence  re- 
coiled in  horror,  and,  stooping  toward  the  bird, 
she  said  : 

"  I  believe  it's  my  very  own  dear  old  birdie  I 
used  to  have  in  a  cage.  Are  you  mine,  Reddie  ?" 
and  she  held  her  hands  toward  it,  when  Reddie  flew 
up  to  her  shoulder,  and  caressed  her  face,  and  neck, 
and  hair  with  its  bill,  nestling  close  to  her,  as  if  it 
did  not  wish  to  be  let  go  again. 

So  Florence  took  her  back  to  the  hotel  where 
she  was  stopping,  and,  bringing  out   the  cage, 


172 


CONCLUSION. 


opened  the  door  and  set  it  before  Reddie,  who 
instantly  went  into  it,  and  springing  up  to  the 
perch,  began  to  swing  back  and  forth  as  if  perfectly 
delighted  with  its  quarters  ;  nor  could  it  be  tempted 
to  come  out  of  the  cage,  although  the  door  was  left 
open  the  entire  day. 

"  Then  I  knew  for  sure  it  was  mine,"  Florence 
said,  "  and  that  it  wanted  to  come  and  live  with  me 
again  ;  though  it  is  very  funny  how  she  found  her 
way  here,  and  why  she  did  not  go  back  to  the  nest, 
which  I  am  sure  she  used  to  have  somewhere  in 
Florida." 

I  could  have  told  her  what  I  knew,  and  made 
her  eyes  blacker  and  larger  than  they  were,  but 
when  I  remembered  the  little  girls  and  boys  at 
home  who  had  asked  so  often  for  a  story  which 
they  could  understand,  I  said  I'll  wait,  and  some 
day  when  I  fe,el  like  it  I  will  write  it,  and  so  let 
other  children,  whose  names  I  do  not  know,  but 
whom  I  love  because  they  are  children,  read  the 
story  which  I  heard  the  Red-bird  tell  that  Christmas 
morning  when  I  sat  under  the  magnolia-tree  far 
away  in  Florida. 


THE  END 
OF 

RED-BIRD. 


r 


RUTH    AND  RENA. 


CHAPTER  I. 

CHRISTMAS  EVE   IN  OAKFIELD. 


T  was  Christmas  Eve,  and  the  first  snow 
of  the  season  lay  upon  the  fields  of  Oak- 
field,  and  the  wintry  wind  blew  cold  and 


chill  through  the  leafless  trees  in  the  yard 
and  shook  the  windows  of  the  old  red  farm-house, 
where  Uncle  Obed  Harris  lived,  and  where  in  his 
comfortable  kitchen  he  sat  waiting  for  the  supper 
which  his  wife,  whom  everybody  knew  as  Aunt 
Hannah,  or  Grandma  Harris,  was  putting  upon  the 
table.  Across  the  common  and  distant  from  the 
house  a  quarter  of  a  mile  or  more,  the  stone  church 
was  seen  with  lights  shining  from  every  pane  of 
glass,  for  the  worshippers  at  St.  Mark's  had  that 
night,  in  addition  to  their  usual  Christmas  Tree,  an 
illumination  in  honor  of  Bethlehem's  child,  born 
[173] 


174         CHRISTMAS   EVE   IN  OAKFIELD. 


amid  the  Judean  hills  so  many  years  ago.  And 
ever  and  anon  as  Uncle  Obed  took  his  tea  he  heard 
the  merry  sound  of  sleigh-bells  and  the  happy 
voices  of  the  children  as  they  went  tripping  by, 
excited  and  eager  to  know  what  the  tree  held  for 
them  on  its  many  and  beautiful  branches  of  green, 

It  was  thirteen  years  since  Uncle  Obed  had  been 
inside  his  church  on  Christmas  Eve,  and  during  all 
these  years  he  had  nursed  only  bitter  memories  of 
the  night  when  his  daughter,  Agatha,  had  made 
such  glorious  music  in  the  organ  loft,  and  then 
sang  so  sweetly  the  "  Peace  on  earth,  good  will 
toward  men,"  with  a  soft  look  of  ecstasy  upon  her 
face  which  the  proud  old  father  thought  sprang 
wholly  from  a  love  divine,  never  dreaming  of  the 
terrible  blow  in  store  for  him,  when,  after  the 
services  were  over,  he  waited  in  vain  for  Agatha  to 
join  him  on  his  homeward  walk  ;  Agatha  did  not 
come  either  then  or  ever  after,  and  he  heard  next 
day  of  a  marriage  performed  by  a  justice  of  the 
peace  and  knew  from  the  note  sent  to  him  that 
Agatha  was  gone  with  the  young  man  whom  he 
had  forbidden  her  ever  again  to  speak  to  if  she 
cared  to  be  his  daughter. 

"  You  must  choose  between  Homer  Hastings  and 
me,"  he  had  said,  and  she  had  chosen,  and  his  door 


CHRISTMAS   EVE   IN   OAKFIELD.  175 


was  henceforth  barred  against  her,  and  she  knew  it, 
and  accepted  the  situation,  and  wrote  once  or  twice 
to  her  mother  from  New  York,  and  said  that  she 
was  happy,  and  told  of  a  little  girl  baby,  whom  she 
called  Ruth,  and  who  had  her  grandmother's  soft 
brown  eyes  and  hair. 

Then  for  a  time  they  lost  all  trace  of  her  until  a 
letter  came,  telling  them  her  husband  was  dead  and 
asking  if  she  might  come  home  ;  Aunt  Hannah 
pleaded  with  Uncle  Obed  then,  begging  him  to  go 
for  their  child  and  the  little  one,  who  would 
brighten  their  lonely  lives,  but  he  said  :  "  No,  she 
has  made  her  bed  and  now  she  must  lie  in  it.  She 
was  my  eyes,  and  when  they  are  once  pulled  out  you 
can't  put  them  in  again." 

Uncle  Obed  and  his  wife  had  married  late  in 
life  and  were  old  when  Agatha  was  born,  and  it 
seemed  as  if  the  father  loved  her  more  for  this,  and 
her  desertion  of  him  for  a  worthless  fellow,  whose 
only  virtue  was  his  handsome  face,  had  hurt  him 
cruelly,  and  he  would  not  forgive,  and  he  kept 
aloof  from  the  Christmas  tree,  which  was  each  year 
set  up  in  the  church  where  other  fingers  than 
Agatha's  swept  the  organ  keys,  and  another  voice 
sang  "  Glory  to  God  on  High."  But  he  was  going 
to-night  ;  he  had  promised  his  wife  that  he  would, 


176         CHRISTMAS    EVE   IN  OAKFIELD. 


and  Aunt  Hannah's  face  had  been  brighter  all  the 

day  for  that  promise,  and  her  step  brisker  and 

lighter  as  she  prepared  the  basket  of  presents  for 

the  poor  children  of  the  parish,  thinking,  as  she 

folded  up  a  pair  of  lamb's  wool  stockings,  of  the 

little  Ruth  whom  she  had  never  seen,  and  whose 

feet  they  would  just  fit.    Where  was  she  now,  and 

where  was  Agatha  that  wintry  day  when  the  snow 

was  drifting  down  so  swiftly,  and  the  wind  was 

blowing  so  hard  over  her  native  hills.  Something 

seemed  to  bring  the  absent  one  nearer  to  Aunt 

Hannah,  and  she  almost  felt  the  touch  of  the  chord 

which  was  to  have  a  beginning  that  night  far  away 

in  New  York  and  which  would  reach  even  to  her 

lonely  home  and  make  it  bright  as  the  sunshine, 

which,  as  the  day  wore  to  a  close,  came  through  the 

dull  gray  clouds  and  fell  soft  and  warm  upon  the 

pure  white  snow. 

There  was  a  great  crowd  in  the  church  that  nighty 

and  Uncle  Obed  felt  a  throb  of  pain  cut  like  a  knife 

through  his  heart  when  he  saw  the  gaily  decorated 

tree,  and  heard  the  organ  peal  and  the  children's 

voices  telling  of  the  "  wonderful  night  "  when 

"  Angels  and  shining  immortals, 
Crowding  the  ebony  portals, 
Fling  out  their  banners  of  light,  on  this 
Wonderful,  wonderful,  night." 


CHRISTMAS   EVE   IN   0AKF1ELD.  177 


He  was  thinking  of  thirteen  years  ago,  and  the 
golden  head  he  saw  in  the  gallery  where  Agatha 
sat  in  her  bright  beauty  playing  her  Christmas 
songs.  But  his  wife's  thoughts  were  more  with 
Ruth,  the  unknown  child,  and  as  one  after  another 
the  little  ones  went  up  the  aisle,  she  prayed  softly 
to  herself,  "  God  grant  me  life  to  see  her  some 
day  before  this  very  railing." 

And  God,  who  hears  and  answers  the  prayer  of 
faith,  heard  and  answered  hers,  though  in  a  dif- 
ferent way  from  what  she  had  expected.  As  if  the 
sight  of  the  Christmas  tree  and  the  happy,  joyous 
faces  of  the  children  had  softened  Uncle  Obed's  heart, 
he  talked  much  that  night  of  Agatha  and  the  baby, 
as  he  always  designated  Ruth,  who,  if  living,  was 
then  twelve  years  old  at  least. 

"They  haunt  me,"  he  said  ;  "and  it  seems  as  if 
Aggie  was  here  in  this  very  room  telling  me  to  do 
something — I  can't  make  out  what." 

"She  has  been  close  to  me  all  day,  too,"  Aunt 
Hannah  replied,  "she  or  the  little  one  ;  and  before 
the  train  came  in  I  was  foolish  enough  to  go  to  her 
old  room  to  see  if  all  was  right  in  case  she  came. 
You  know,  it  is  just  as  she  left  it,  only  the  curtains 
are  new." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,  wife,"  and  Uncle  Obed  lifted 


178        CHRISTMAS  EVE  IN  0AKF1ELD. 


his  head  suddenly.  "  Should  I  be  an  old  fool  to  go 
to  New  York  to-morrow  and  inquire  ?" 

Aunt  Hannah  had  done  with  kissing  years  ago, 
but  now  her  arms  were  around  her  husband's  neck 
in  a  trice,  and  her  cheek  was  laid  to  his  as  she  kissed 
him  fervently,  while  the  great  tears  choked  her 
utterance  and  kept  her  from  answering.  But  she 
was  understood,  and  the  next  morning,  while  the 
bell  was  ringing  for  church  and  the  Christmas  sun 
was  shining  brightly  over  the  earth,  Uncle  Obed 
sat  in  a  corner  of  the  car  which  was  taking  him  to 
New  York  and,  as  he  hoped,  to  the  lost  ones  he 
sought.  Aunt  Hannah  ate  her  Christmas  dinner 
alone  that  day,  and  after  it  was  over  went  to 
Agatha's  room  and  kindled  a  fire  upon  the  hearth, 
and  felt  her  pulse  beat  with  a  new  hope  as  she 
watched  the  flames  lapping  the  bits  of  pine  and 
then  leaping  up  the  chimney  mouth. 

"  He  may  not  be  home  in  three  or  four  days," 
she  said  to  herself,  "but  it's  well  to  be  ready;  and 
the  room  needs  airing  so  much." 

So  she  opened  both  the  windows,  and  brushed  the 
snow  from  the  stools,  and  made  the  bed  up  fresh 
and  clean,  and  gave  the  pillows  a  loving  pat  as  she 
put  them  in  their  places,  and  moved  Agatha's  favor- 
ite chair  nearer  to  the  fire,  and  put  the  book  of 


CHRISTMAS   EVE   IN   OAKFIELD.  179 


Psalms  upon  it,  with  "Doddridge's  Rise  and  Pro- 
gress/' and  by  way  of  variety  laid  beside  them  one 
of  the  Waverly  Novels  which  Agatha  used  to  like 
so  much  and  prefer  to  Doddridge  or  the  Psalms. 
This  done,  she  shut  the  windows  but  left  the 
blinds  open  to  let  the  sunshine  in,  thinking  to  her- 
self as  she  went  out  and  closed  the  door,  "  I'll  build 
a  fire  every  day  until  he  comes  back  with  'em." 

Alas  for  Aunt  Hannah  praying  so  often  and 
waiting  so  anxiously  for  him  and  them,  she  little 
knows  how  long  and  severely  her  faith  is  to  be 
tested,  or  of  the  rich  fruition  which  will  crown  that 
faith  at  last. 


/ 


180        CHRISTMAS   EYE   IN  NEW  YORK. 


CHAPTER  II. 

CHRISTMAS  EVE  IN  NEW  YORK. 

HERE  was  no  snow  in  New  York  that 
Christmas  Eve,  but  the  wind  seemed 
colder  for  that,  as  it  blew  in  sharp  biting 
gusts  through  the  dark  streets  and  alleys, 
and  sweeping  up  a  long  flight  of  rickety  stairs  to 
one  of  those  tenements  where  the  poor  live, — God 
only  knows  how, — crept  through  the  wide  cracks  of 
a  room  where  two  little  girls  crouched  before  the 
fire,  which  the  elder  of  them  was  trying  to  coax  into 
a  blaze.  She  had  been  out  all  day  in  the  crowded 
streets  offering  her  pins  and  shoe-lacings  and 
matches,  first  to  one  and  then  to  another  of  the  gay 
throng  hurrying  by,  all,  or  nearly  all,  in  too  great 
haste  to  notice  her,  shivering  with  cold  and  pinched 
with  hunger  though  she  was.  Had  they  done  soy 
they  would  have  seen  that  she  was  no  ordinary 
child,  and  her  soft  brown  eyes,  and  sweet  pale  face, 


CHRISTMAS   EVE  IN  NEW   YORK.  181 


would  have  attracted  attention  to  her  at  once.  But 
it  was  the  day  before  Christmas,  and  though  money- 
was  spent  by  the  thousands  for  toys  which  would 
please  for  an  hour,  and  then  lie  idly  upon  some 
nursery  floor,  only  twenty-five  cents  of  it  came  to 
poor  little  Ruth,  who  wanted  it  so  much,  and  -whose 
eyes  had  in  them  a  wistful,  anxious  look  every  time 
she  offered  her  wares  for  sale.  She  did  not  tell  a 
pitiful  tale  of  her  mother,  dead  six  months  before, 
or  of  the  poverty  and  the  sorrow,  as  one  article  after 
another  was  sold  for  food  and  fuel,  until  the  com- 
paratively comfortable  home  was  bare  of  nearly 
everything,  save  the  absolute  necessities  for  daily 
use.  Neither  did  she  tell  of  her  struggles  to  earn 
bread  for  herself  and  Rena,  darling  little  five-years 
old  Rena,  whose  eyes  were  like  the  violets  of 
spring,  and  whose  hair  was  golden  in  the  sunshine, 
with  a  tinge  of  red  upon  it.  Poor  little  Rena,  who 
kept  the  house  at  home  while  Ruthy  was  away, — 
who  washed  the  two  plates  and  the  one  mug  they 
shared  between  them,  and  swept  the  floor  and 
washed  the  hearth,  and  wiped  the  dingy  paint,  as 
her  mother  had  done  when  it  was  not  as  dingy  as 
now,  and  did  it  more  than  once  to  pass  away  the 
long,  lonely  hours  of  Ruth's  absence.  She  had  been 
told  never  to  play  with  the  children  in  the  street. 


m        CHRISTMAS   EVE  IN  NEW  YORK. 


and  her  dead  mother's  command  was  sacred  to  the 
conscientious  child,  who  contented  herself  with 
looking  from  the  windows  of  the  fourth  story, 
where  she  lived,  down  upon  the  moving,  everchang- 
ing  crowd  in  the  narrow  street  below. 

And  here  she  sat  waiting  for  Ruth,  as  the  short 
December  day  drew  to  a  close,  and  the  cold  night 
shut  down  over  the  great  city.  She  knew  all  about 
Christmas  eve  and  Santa  Claus,  and  many  times 
that  day  she  had  said  to  herself,  "I  wish  Santa  Claus 
would  bring  Ruthy  something,"  and  once  she 
thought  to  go  herself  upon  the  walk  and  beg  a  few 
pennies  for  "  Ruthy's  present,"  as  she  had  seen 
children  do,  but  this  had  been  forbidden,  and  so  she 
sat  in  her  chair  by  the  window  and  watched  and 
thought  of  many  things,  and  among  others,  of 
the  story  of  Bethlehem,  which  she  liked  so  much. 
The  lowly  manger,  the  mound  of  hay,  the  meek- 
eyed  oxen  with  their  long  white  horns,  were  things 
she  never  tired  of.  But  she  delighted  most  in  the 
baby,  the  little  boy  and  his  mother,  and  she  had  so 
wanted  a  book  full  of  pictures  which  should  tell  her 
all  about  it.  There  was  such  a  one  called  "  That 
Sweet  Story  of  Old."  Ruthy  had  said,  and  Rena  had 
made  many  plans  for  getting  it  when  she  was  older, 
while  Ruth,  too,  had  her  own  darling  scheme  with 


CHRISTMAS   EVE  IN  NEW    YORK.  183 


regard  to  it,  and  every  day  for  a  month,  she  had  put 
by  a  few  pennies  from  her  little  earnings,  and  eaten 
less  herself,  in  order  to  save  enough  to  buy  the  book, 
as  a  Christmas  gift  to  Rena.  She  had  almost 
enough  that  morning  when  she  went  out,  but  the 
day  was  not  a  good  one  for  her  trade.  Nobody 
wanted  boot-lacings  and  pins,  when  in  all  the  shop 
windows,  there  were  so  many  beautiful  things,  and 
if  she  bought  the  book,  she  must  go  without  her 
supper.  But  she  did  not  care  for  that,  though  she 
was  very  hungry,  and  the  smell  of  the  food  which 
came  to  her  so  often  from  the  many  basement 
kitchens,  nearly  drove  her  wild.  Still  she  did  not 
falter,  and  when  at  last  she  turned  into  the  narrow 
street,  and  ascended  the  long,  steep  stairway,  the 
book  was  under  her  shawl,  and  she  had  only  two 
buns  and  a  hot  roll  in  her  hands;  These  she  had 
bought  far  up  town,  at  Purssell's,  as  a  treat  for  little 
Rena,  to  whom  a  lady  had  once  given  a  Bath  bun, 
and  who  had  talked  of  it  ever  since. 

Rena  was  off  her  guard,  and  in  thinking  of 
Bethlehem  had  fallen  asleep  and  let  the  fire  go  out, 
so  that  it  was  dark  and  cheerless  enough  when 
Ruth  entered  the  room  :  but  though  very  cold  and 
tired,  she  did  not  care  for  Rena's  remissness,  as  it 
gave  her  time  to  hide  the  book  which  was  to  be  a 


184       CHRISTMAS  EVE  IN  NEW  YORK. 


great  surprise  on  the  morrow  when  it  was  fairly 
Christmas  day.  Putting  it  carefully  away  she 
lighted  the  lamp  and  then  tried  to  rekindle  the  fire. 
The  noise  awoke  Rena,  who  was  soon  beside  her  on 
the  hearth  and  looking  into  her  face  to  see  if  the 
day  had  been  a  good  one. 

To  little  Rena  good  days  meant  a  bit  of  meat  for 
supper  with  perhaps  a  piece  of  pie,  and  a  warm  fire 
in  the  evening,  and  she  saw  that  none  of  these 
luxuries  were  in  store  for  her  that  night,  and  the 
old,  patient,  but  sad  look  came  back  to  her  face  as 
she  wound  her  arms  around  Ruthy's  neck  and  said  : 

"You  didn't  get  much;  but  no  matter,  you've 
got  me" 

Yes,  Ruth  had  little  Rena,  and  forcing  down  a 
great  sob  just  as  she  had  forced  it  down  the  livelong 
day  when  she  remembered  other  Christmas  tides, 
she  held  her  darling  sister  close  to  her  and  parted 
her  bright  hair  from  her  brow,  and  told  her  of  the 
nice  Bath  buns  from  Purssell's  and  the  roll  for 
breakfast,  and  said  she  did  not  want  anything  her- 
self, as  she  had  had  her  supper,  meaning  a  part  of 
an  apple  she  had  found  near  a  fruit  stand. 

And  hungry  little  Rena  ate  a  bun,  sitting  on  the 
floor  by  the  fire,  for  neither  of  the  girls  thought  it 
worth  while  to  set  the  table  just  for  a  single  bun  ! 


CHRISTMAS   EVE   m  NEW    YORK.  185 


And  as  Rena  ate  she  talked  of  Christmas  and 
Christmas  trees,  and  asked  Ruth  to  tell  her  again 
of  the  tree  which  she  saw  once,  and  which  had  on  it 
a  doll  and  a  paper  of  candy  for  her.  "Jesus'  birth- 
day party  "  Rena  called  the  Christmas  eve  festival, 
and  as  she  warmed  her  blue  hands  by  the  fire,  she 
wished  that  she  might  go  to  His  " party  M  and  get 
"  oh,  lots  of  things — some  new  shoes  and  stockings, 
and  a  doll  that  would  squeak,  and  some  mince  pie, 
and  that  story  of  Jesus — only,  Ruthy,  I'd  give  them 
all  to  you,  'cause  you  goes  in  the  cold,  but  I'd  keep 
the  book  about  the  pretty  Bethlehem  child,"  she 
said,  as  she  stuck  out  her  little  feet  with  her  ragged 
shoes  and  looked  ruefully  at  them. 

Poor  little  Rena,  there  were  shoes  and  stockings 
both,  just  fitted  to  her  cold  feet,  in  the  basket  Aunt 
Hannah  carried  to  the  Oa^field  church  that  after- 
noon, but  Rena  knew  nothing  of  them,  and  she  kept 
on  talking  to  Ruth,  asking  finally  what  it  was  their 
mother  had  said  about  her  old  home  in  the  country 
where  there  was  grass  in  summer,  with  flowers  and 
birds,  and  always  enough  to  eat  and  "  Jesus'  birth- 
day party  "  every  year  in  the  church. 

So  Ruth  told  her  again  of  the  house  of  which 
she  had  heard  so  much  from  her  mother ;  and  Rena 
asked  : 


186        CHRISTMAS   EVE   IN  NEW  YORK 


"It  we've  a  grandpa  and  grandma  there,  why 
doesn't  they  come  for  us  ?  It's  so  cold  here,  Ruthy, 
and  I's  so  hungry,  too.  I  want  the  other  bun  so 
bad,  and  I's  savin'  it  for  you." 

There  were  great  tears  on  Rena's  cheeks  as  she 
confessed  that  her  hunger  was  greater  than  her 
spirit  of  self-denial  could  endure.  She  had  meant 
to  keep  the  other  bun  for  Ruthy's  breakfast,  but,  as 
she  said,  she  was  "  so  hungry,"  and  Ruth  made  her 
eat  it,  and  then  to  save  the  fire,  they  crept  into  bed, 
but  not  until  their  prayers  were  reverently  said, 
Rena  venturing  to  improvise  a  little  and  ask  God 
"to  send  them  a  great  big  fire,  which  should  make 
them,  oh,  as  warm  as  toast — and  let  her  sometime 
go  to  His  Son's  birthday  party  and  get  something 
from  the  tree,  please,  for  Christ's  sake  ;  good- night, 
and  don't  let  us  be  cold  any  more,  amen." 

This  was  Rena's  prayer,  and  then  nestling  close 
to  Ruth,  she  whispered,  "God  is  here,  isn't  He  ;  in 
this  room  ?" 

"Yes,"  was  Ruth's  reply. 

"And  hears  me  pray  when  I  say  1  please,  for 
Christ's  sake  ?'  And  I  am  sure  he  will,  for  mamma 
said  so,  and  we'll  be  warm  to-morrow,  Ruthy,  you 
and  I  ;  oh,  so  warm,  with  a  big  fire — fire — for 
Christ's  sake — please." 


CHRISTMAS   EVE   IN  NEW    YORK.  187 


The  words  were  far  apart  and  indistinct  for 
little  Rena  was  fast  falling  into  dreamland.  But  so 
long  as  consciousness  remained,  there  was  a  prayer 
in  her  heart  for  "  fire — a  big  fire  to  warm  us,  please." 

And  God,  who  was  there,  in  that  humble  room, 
and  heard  their  prayer,  answered  it  in  His  own  way, 
which  was  not  exactly  little  Rena's  way. 


188 


TEE  FIRE. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  FIRE. 

HE  Christmas  Eve  Festivals  were  over, 
and  night  brooded  silently  over  the  great 
city,  until  the  clock  on  Trinity  rang  for 
twelve  ;  then  a  few  moments  went  by, 
and  the  great  bell  at  Jefferson  market  sent  forth  its 
warning,  which  was  caught  up  and  repeated  faster, 
louder,  more  excitedly,  as  the  mad  flames,  let  loose 
from  the  nooks  and  corners  where  they  had  perhaps 
been  smoldering  through  the  day,  leaped  high  in 
the  air  and  ran  riotously  over  the  roofs  of  the  old 

tenement  house  on   street,  where  Ruth  and 

Rena  lay  sleeping.  "  Fire, — fire, — "  how  the  cry 
sounded  through  the  streets,  and  what  a  clatter  the 
firemen  and  the  people  made  and  how  the  women 
shrieked  and  the  children  cried,  and  nobody  but 
God  thought  of  Ruth  and  Rena.  He  was  taking 
care  of  them,  and  woke  Ruth  just  as  the  flames 


THE  FIRE. 


189 


looked  for  an  instant  into  the  room,  already  filled 
with  smoke,  and  then  were  subdued  by  a  powerful 
jet  of  water,  which  left  all  again  in  darkness. 

Ruth  knew  what  it  meant,  and  with  a  gasp  of 
suffocation  sprang  from  the  bed,  and  groping  her 
wTay  to  the  door,  opened  it  wide,  hoping  to  admit 
the  fresh  air,  without  which  she  knew  she  must 
smother.  But  only  thick,  dark  billows  of  smoke 
came  rolling  in,  filling  her  lungs  and  eyes  and 
mouth,  as  she  tried  to  find  her  way  back  to  her 
sister  to  whom  she  shrieked,  "Wake,  Rena  ;  the 
house  is  on  fire.    Run  for  your  life." 

The  cry  awoke  Rena,  who  staggered  toward  the 
door,  more  by  chance  than  design.  Fortunately  for 
her,  it  was  still  open,  and,  blinded  by  smoke,  and 
wild  with  fright,  she  rushed  down  the  stairway,  and 
escaped  unharmed  into  the  street  below,  where  the 
excited  throng  of  people  wemJ  running  and  shriek- 
ing, and  where  she  would  have  been  trampled  to 
death,  if  a  city  missionary,  had  not  found  her  as, 
in  her  night  dress,  with  her  little  white  feet  nearly 
frozen,  she  ran  hither  and  thither,  sobbing  in  a 
pitiful  kind  of  way  for  "  Ruthy  "  to  come  and  get 
her.  One  of  the  mission  houses  received  her,  and 
when  the  Christmas  dawn  broke  over  the  city,  and 
the  bells  were  pealing  merrily  she  lay  on  one  of  the 


190 


THE  FIRE. 


little  cots  asleep,  her  lips  occasionally  whispering 
softly,  "  Come,  Ruthy,  come." 

The  fright  and  exposure  brought  on  a  low  fever, 
and  for  weeks  kind  nurses  watched  by  her  trying  to 
make  out  something  from  her  not  very  clear  story. 

"  Mother's  dead/'  she  said,  "  I  haven't  any  papa ; 
Ruthy  and  me  lives  alone,  and  sells  pins  and  things, 
only  Ruthy  sells  'em  and  I  keep  house,  and  she's 
burned,  and  F.s  Rena  Cutler  and  she  isn't." 

This  was  her  story,  and  as  nothing  more  could 
be  learned  of  her  or  of  the  Ruth  of  whom  she  talked, 
and  as  it  was  known  that  several  had  perished  in 
the  flames,  it  seemed  probable  that  Ruth  was  one  of 
them  ;  and  Rena's  fever  ran  higher,  and  she  talked 
of  the  baby  of  Bethlehem  and  Jesus'  birthday  party, 
and  the  buns  from  Purssell's,  but  after  a  time  she 
grew  better,  and  was  interested  in  things  ar.ound 
her,  and  was  a  great  favorite  with  every  one  and 
happy  in  her  new  home,  where  all  the  influences 
were  calculated  to  strengthen  the  good  there  was  in 
her  when  she  lived  with  Ruth  in  the  old  house. 

But  she  never  forgot  "poor  Ruthy,"  whom  she 
believed  to  have  been  burned  to  death,  and  every 
night  she  prayed  that  God  would  make  her  "good 
enough  to  go  some  day  to  Heaven  where  Ruthy  and 
mother  were  ;  amen,  for  Christ's  sake,  please." 


RENA   AT    UNCLE    OBED'8.  191 


CHAPTER  IV. 

RENA  AT   UNCLE  OBED'S. 

NCLE  OBED  had  not  found  his  lost 
daughter  in  New  York,  or  any  trace  of 
her  ;  but  he  heard  of  the  fire,  and  he 
went  down  and  looked  at  the  ruins,  and 
stood  close  to  the  place  where  little  Rena  came 
shrieking  down  the  stairs  into  the  streets  ;  then  he 
went  to  the  Mission  House  on  Sunday  and  heard 
the  children  sing  their  songs,  and  saw  them  take 
their  evening  meal,  and  wenjTihto  the  room  where 
little  Rena  lay  and  saw  her  bright  hair  on  the  pillow 
and  just  the  outline  of  her  pale  face,  and  heard  she 
was  one  of  the  little  ones  rescued  from  the  fire. 
He  left  ten  dollars  with  the  matron  to  be  used  for 
her  and  "  the  other  wee  ones,  God  bless  them  !"  and 
then  went  home  and  told  Aunt  Hannah,  who  all  the 
winter  long  worked  for  that  Home  in  New  York, 
and  sent  to  it  more  than  one  garment  which  hap- 
pened to  fit  Rena. 


192 


MENA    AT    UNCLE  OBED'S. 


And  so  five  years  went  by,  and  then  there  came 
to  Oakfield  one  day  an  agent  for  the  Home,  and 
with  him  several  little  girls  for  whom  places  were 
wanted.  Rena  was  among  them,  and  in  her  soft 
blue  eyes  and  pretty  face  there  was  something  which 
appealed  strongly  to  the  sympathy  of  Aunt  Hannah, 
who  took  the  child  for  her  own  and  brought  her 
home  and  put  her  in  the  room  which  had  been 
Agatha's,  and  gave  her  so  much  love  and  kindness 
that  the  little  girl  sometimes  wondered  "if  Heaven, 
where  Ruthy  was,  could  be  better  than  this." 

There  in  Oakfield  she  saw,  for  the  first  time,  the 
Christmas  tree  in  all  its  glory,  and  "  Rena"  was 
called  so  many  times,  that  at  last  when  she  came 
back  with  a  huge  doll  which  Aunt  Hannah  had 
worked  at  in  secret  for  w~eeks,  she  hid  her  face  in 
her  hands  and  sobbed  hysterically,  so  great  was 
her  happiness.  That  was  to  her  in  truth  "  Jesus' 
birth-day  party,"  and  when  that  night  she  knelt 
alone  in  her  room,  she  thanked  Him  in  her  quaint 
way  for  all  the  joy  and  brightness  crowning  her 
young  life,  and  then,  with  a  sigh  as  she  remembered 
poor  Ruthy,  asked  that  if  there  were  Christmas 
trees  in  Heaven,  Ruthy  might  see  one  and  get 
everything  she  wanted,  just  as  she  had  done. 

Here  Rena  paused  with  a  thought  of  the  book 


RENA    AT    UNCLE    0  BED'S.  193 


she  had  coveted  so  much,  and  which  Ruth  had 
promised  to  buy  as  soon  as  she  saved  money  enough. 
Rena  had  never  seen  the  book,  for  Grandma  Harris, 
as  the  child  called  her,  knew  nothing  of  it,  and  the 
nearest  Rena  had  been  to  possessing  it  was  on  that 
night  when  Ruth  had  hidden  it  away  so  carefully 
against  the  morning  which  dawned  upon  them  amid 
smoke  and  flame.  The  book  had  burned  to  ashes  ; 
Rena  was  there  at  Grandpa  Harris's  ;  and  Ruth,  as 
she  believed,  wTas  in  Heaven  with  the  mother  whom 
Rena  could  scarcely  remember.  Fright  and  sick- 
ness had  driven  some  things  from  her  mind,  but  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Harris  knew  that  she  was  picked  up  on  the 
street  on  the  night  of  a  fire  and  that  her  name  wTas 
Rena  Cutler.  They  knew,  too,  about  poor  Ruth,  and 
Grandma  Harris  had  wept  more  than  once  over  the 
two  little  girls  living  alone  in  the  cold,  forlorn  cham- 
ber of  the  dreary  tenement  House.  So  much  Rena 
could  tell,  but  when  it  came  to  her  mother  she  remem- 
bered nothing  except  that  she  was  good,  and  sick, 
and  died ;  and  so  grandma  never  suspected  the 
truth,  or  dreamed  why  the  orphan  seemed  so  near 
to  her  and  her  husband,  both  of  whom  would  have 
been  very  lonely  now  without  the  little  girl  to 
whom  they  had  given  their  name,  so  that  she  was 
known  to  everybody  as  Rena  Harris. 


194 


DAISY. 


CHAPTER  V. 

DAISY. 

WIFTLY  the  years  came  and  went  till 
Rena  had  been  for  more  than  four  years 
in  Oakland,  and  was  a  fair,  sweet-faced 
girl  of  thirteen,  when  one  day,  toward  the 
last  of  August  there  came  to  the  farm-house  from 
the  hotel  on  the  hill  across  the  river,  a  young  man 
whom  Rena  had  seen  in  church  and  who  she  had 
heard  was  stopping  in  town  with  his  wife.  Occa- 
sionally he  had  driven  by  the  farm-house,  and 
Rena  had  caught  sight  of  a  pale,  beautiful  face  which 
had  made  her  heart  throb  quickly  with  a  feeling  she 
could  not  define.  It  was  a  young  girlish  face,  and 
Rena  was  surprised  when  she  heard  that  the  lady 
was  the  young  man's  wife,  and  very  sorry  and 
grieved  when  she  further  heard  that  she  was  crazy. 

"  Not  quite  right  in  her  mind,"  George  Rivers 
said,  when  he  came  to  the  farm-house  to  ask  if  they 
would  take  his  poor  "  Daisy  "  for  a  few  weeks 


DAISY. 


195 


"  She  lost  her  baby  six  months  ago,"  he  said,  "  and 
she's  been  strange  ever  since.  I  brought  "her  to  the 
country  hoping  a  change  from  the  city  would  do 
her  good,  and  I  think  she  is  improving.  We  have 
driven  by  here  several  times,  and  for  some  reason 
she  has  taken  a  great  fancy  to  this  place,  and  says 
she  could  sleep  and  should  get  well  if  she  were  here, 
so  I  called  to  ask  if  you  will  take  her." 

The  price  offered  was  remunerative,  and  as 
dollars  were  not  so  very  plenty  with  the  old  couple 
they  consented  at  last  to  take  the  young  lady,  whom 
her  husband  called  Daisy,  and  whom  Rena  felt 
that  she  should  love  so  much.  She  was  a  wonder- 
fully beautiful  little  creature,  not  much  taller  than 
Rena  herself,  and  her  soft,  brown  eyes  had  in  them 
an  expression  so  sad  and  pitiful,  that  Rena  could 
scarcely  keep  back  the  tears  when  she  saw  her 
coming  in  leaning  upon  her  husband's  arm.  There 
had  been  talk  of  a  nurse  to  look  after  her  when 
George  returned  to  the  city,  but  Rena  had  begged 
so  hard  for  that  office  that  Mr.  Rivers  had  consented 
and  Rena  was  to  attend  her,  and  she  came  at  once 
to  the  invalid  and  showed  her  to  the  large,  pleasant 
chamber  which  adjoined  her  own,  and  which  over- 
looked the  town  and  the  hill  country  beyond. 

"This  is  so  nice — so  like  a  dream  I've  had  of 


196 


DAISY. 


something.  I  shall  be  better  here,"  Daisy  said,  as 
she  leaned  from  the  window  and  looked  out  upon 
the  yard  and  garden  below. 

"Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?  I  am  to  be  your 
little  maid.    I  am  Rena  Harris.'' 

This  was  what  Rena  said  as  the  lady  turned  from 
the  window,  and  Daisy's  brown  eyes  looked  wonder- 
ingly  at  her,  while  a  deep  flush  suffused  the  white 
face  for  an  instant  and  then  left  it  paler  than 
before. 

"  Rena,  Rena,"  she  repeated;  "I  never  knew 
but  one,  and  she  is  with  the  angels.  I  called  baby 
Irene,  and  she  died  too.  Rena  ;  it's  very  strange 
that  you  should  have  that  name." 

Daisy  wTas  talking  to  herself  now,  for  at  the  first 
mention  of  Irene,  Rena  had  darted  down  stairs  to 
Aunt  Hannah,  exclaiming  : 

"  I've  got  it  now — my  real  name.  You  know  I 
never  could  think  for  sure,  but  the  moment  she 
said  her  baby  was  Irene,  it  came  back  to  me.  That 
was  the  name  in  the  Bible — Irene  Cutler,  and  Ruth 
read  it  to  me  once  and  she  called  me  Rena.  Oh, 
grandma,  you  don't  know  how  sad  the  lady  looked 
when  she  said,  'Rena,  Rena  !'  I  shall  love  her  so 
dearly,  and  I  mean  to  take  such  good  care  of  her, 
too." 


DAISY. 


197 


Rena  was  as  good  as  her  word,  and  soon  loved 
the  beautiful  Daisy  with  a  devotion  both  rare  and 
curious,  while  Daisy  never  seemed  happier  than 
when  her  little  maid  was  with  her.  She  was  very 
pretty  with  a  fair  creamy  complexion,  soft  brown 
eyes  and  abundant  hair  of  the  same  shade,  which 
she  wore  in  braids  coiled  about  her  head,  while, 
added  to  her  beauty  was  an  air  of  grace  and  gentle 
dignity  which  alone  would  have  made  her  very 
attractive.  She  did  not  seem  to  be  really  crazy; 
her  mind  was  only  weak,  and  sometimes  when  talk- 
ing of  her  baby  she  said  queer  things,  which  showed 
that  her  reason  was  not  quite  clear.  But  the  quiet, 
happy  life  she  led  at  the  farm-house  began  to  have 
its  influence,  and  when  in  September  her  husband, 
who  had  returned  to  Boston  after  seeing  her  com- 
fortably settled,  came  again  jto  Oakfield,  he  found 
her  greatly  improved.  She  was  very  happy  there, 
and  begged  so  hard  to  be  allowed  to  stay  until  after 
Christmas  that  both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Harris  and  her 
husband  consented,  while  Rena  was  wild  with 
delight  when  she  heard  of  the  arrangement. 

When  Mr.  Rivers  first  came  she  had  feared  that 
she  might  lose  the  sweet  lady  whom  she  loved  so 
much,  but  now  she  was  to  stay  a  long  time,  it  seemed 
to  her,  and  her  joy  knew  no  bounds,  while  she  re- 


198 


DAISY. 


doubled  her  efforts  to  please  and  amuse  her  patient 
who  owed  much  of  her  improvement  to  Rena's  care. 
Together  in  the  bright  autumn  days  they  roamed 
over  the  fields  and  thro'  the  woods  of  Oakfield,  and 
the  villagers  sometimes  saw  them  sitting  on  the 
banks  of  the  river,  Rena  at  Daisy's  feet,  looking  up 
into  the  lovely  face  above  her,  while  Daisy's  fingers 
caressed  her  golden  hair,  or  wove  for  it  a  crown  of 
the  rich-hued  autumn  leaves. 
Once  Daisy  said  to  her  : 

"You  make  me  think  so  much  of  the  sister  I 
lost ;  her  name  was  Rena,  too." 

"  Tell  me  about  her,  please,"  Rena  said,  and 
Daisy  replied  : 

"  Sometime  when  I  am  stronger  I  will,  but  now 
it  makes  my  brain  thump  so  to  think  of  her.  Oh, 
Rena,  Rena,  my  darling,  my  darling." 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  Rena 
could  see  the  tears  trickle  through  her  fingers  as  she 
rocked  to  and  fro,  whispering  of  things  which  per- 
plexed and  puzzled  the  little  girl  to  whom  they  did 
not  seem  strange  or  new. 

After  a  little  Daisy  became  quiet,  but  for  many 
days  she  was  not  quite  herself,  and  Rena  never 
spoke  again  of  the  dead  sister,  and  the  autumn  went 
by  and  the  winter  came  with  its  dull  gray  clouds 


DAISY. 


199 


and  wailing  winds,  and  still  Daisy  tarried  at  the  farm- 
house where  she  was  to  remain  until  after  the  holi- 
days. These  her  husband  was  to  spend  with  her, 
and  he  came  the  day  before  Christmas  with  gifts, 
some  for  his  wife,  some  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Harris, 
and  some  for  Rena,  Among  these  last  was  a  book — 
too  young  it  might  seem  for  a  girl  of  thirteen,  but 
it  had  been  gotten  up  with  beautiful  binding  and 
colored  prints  expressly  for  the  holidays,  and  its 
title  was  : 

"THAT  SWEET  STORY  OF  OLD; 

OR 

THE  LIFE  OF  JESUS." 

Very  carefully,  nay,  almost  reverently,  Daisy 
took  the  book  in  her  hand  and  her  eyes  were  full 
of  tears  as  she  said  : 

"  It  is  beautiful,  but  not  much  like  the  one 
I  bought  that  day  for  my  darling.  Oh,  George, 
how  the  Christmas  holidays  bring  her  back  to  me, 
and  I  see  her  just  as  she  looked  that  last  night 
kneeling  by  the  fire  and  talking  of  '  Jesus'  birth- 
day party/  and  what  she  wanted  from  the  tree  if 
she  ever  went  to  one — shoes,  and  stockings  and  a 
doll  that  would  squeak,  and  some  mince  pie  and  the 
story  of  Jesus  and  she  would  give  them  all  to  me  but 
the  book,  she  said,  because  I  went  in  the  cold,  and, 


200 


DAISY. 


George,  her  shoes  were  so  ragged  then  and  her  litde 
toes  so  blue." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know.  Don't  talk  of  it  any  more; 
it  excites  you  too  much,"  George  said,  as  he  drew 
his  young  wife  fondly  to  him,  but  Daisy  answered  : 

"  I  must  talk.  I  feel  just  like  it,  and  the  words 
will  choke  me  if  I  do  not  let  "them  out.  I  have 
thought  of  Rena  all  day  just  as  I  always  do  at 
Christmas  time.  It's  eight  years  to-night  since  the 
fire,  and  I  loved  her  so  much  ;  she  was  so  sweet 
and  pretty,  with  a  look  in  her  eyes  like  Rena 
Harris,  whom  I  love  for  her  sake.  Darling  sister, 
I  see  her  now  as  she  prayed  for  a  big  fire  to  warm 
her  and  Ruthy,  as  warm  as  toast,  and  God  sent  the 
fire  and  burned  my  precious  sister  up.  Oh,  George, 
does  he  always  answer  prayer  that  way  ?" 

Ere  George  could  reply  there  was  the  sound  of 
a  choking  sob  by  the  open  door,  a  rush  across  the 
floor,  a  folding  of  arms  tightly  around  the  astonished 
Daisy's  neck,  while  Rena's  voice  said  : 

"  Oh,  Ruthy,  Ruthy, — you  are  Ruthy  and  I  am 
Rena.  I  was  not  burned  that  awful  night,  but 
thought  you  were,  and  have  cried  so  often  for  you. 
God  did  answer  my  prayer  and  I  never  was  cold 
any  more.  I  am  Rena  Cutler  and  you  are  sister 
Ruth." 


DAISY. 


201 


Rena  had  been  passing  the  open  door  when  her 
attention  was  attracted  by  hearing  Daisy  repeat  the 
title  of  the  book  she  had  once  coveted  so  much. 
Involuntarily  and  without  any  intention  of  listen- 
ing, she  paused  a  moment  and  heard  that  which 
kept  her  riveted  to  the  spot,  while  the  hot  blood 
surged  wildly  through  her  veins  at  Daisy's  story. 
She  did  not  stop  to  reason  or  ask  herself  how  that 
beautiful  young  lady,  with  all  the  signs  of  wealth 
and  culture  around  her,  could  be  the  Ruth  who  once 
sold  matches  in  New  York,  and  lived  with  her  in 
that  cheerless  upper  room.  She  knew  it  was  she 
— the  Ruth  she  had  mourned  as  dead, — and  with  a 
glad  cry  she  went  to  her,  and  falling  upon  her  neck, 
claimed  her  as  her  own. 

And  Daisy  neither  shrieked,  nor  fainted,  nor 
cried  out,  but  sat  like  one  dead,  while  George  un- 
clasped Rena's  arms  from  her  neck  and  questioned 
her  of  the  past.  Very  rapidly  Rena  told  her  story, 
and  Daisy  listened  till  the  color  came  back  to  her 
face,  and  the  tears  flowed  in  torrents,  while  sob  after 
sob  shook  her  frame,  and  her  lips  kept  whispering 
gladly  :  "  Thank  God  ;  thank  God,  it's  Rena,  it 
is." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Harris  were  now  summoned,  and 
to  them  George  appealed  for  confirmation  of  Rena's 
9* 


202 


DAISY. 


story.  As  concisely  as  he  could  Grandpa  Harris 
told  what  he  had  heard  of  Rena  from  the  man  who 
brought  her  to  Oakfield,  and  when  he  had  finished 
even  Mr.  Rivers  himself  could  no  longer  doubt  that 
Daisy  had  found  her  sister,  and  drawing  Rena  to 
him  he  kissed  her  fondly  in  token  of  his  recognition 
as  a  near  and  dear  relation. 

Daisy's  story  was  soon  told.  After  her  frantic 
call  for  Rena  to  waken  she  had  fallen  senseless 
upon  the  floor,  where  she  would  have  died  but  for 
the  women  who  occupied  the  adjoining  room,  and 
who  suddenly  remembered  the  little  girls  and 
called  to  a  fireman  to  save  them.  The  flames  by 
this  time  were  rolling  up  the  stairway,  and  Ruth's 
hair  was  scorched  when  the  brave  man  reached  her 
and  bore  her  safely  into  the  street.  To  venture 
again  into  the  roaring  mass  of  fire  was  impossible, 
and  as  none  of  Rena's  acquaintances  chanced  to  see 
her  in  the  crowd,  it  was  supposed  that  she  perished 
in  the  flames,  and  not  all  the  good  fortune  which 
came  to  Ruth  could  ever  obliterate  the  memory  of 
that  dreadful  night,  or  her  sister's  terrible  fate.  A 
kind  woman  belonging  to  the  better  class  of  poor 
had  taken  Ruth  into  her  house,  where  within  a  few 
days  came  Mrs.  Rivers,  from  far  uptown,  to  get 
plain  sewing  done.    Six  months  before  she  had  lost 


DAISY. 


203 


her  only  daughter,  who  was  just  Ruth's  age  and 
size,  and  something  in  the  face  of  the  desolate  young 
girl  attracted  the  lady's  notice,  and  when  she  heard 
her  story  it  seemed  as  if  her  own  dead  child  from 
the  grave  in    Greenwood,  was  pleading  for  the 
orphan.    And  so  it  came  about  that  Ruth  found 
herself  in  a  beautiful  home,  where,  as  Mrs.  Rivers' 
adopted  daughter,  every  want  was  supplied,  and 
she  went  no  more  into  the  street  to  sell  her  humble 
wares.    So  certain  did  Rena's  death  seem,  that  no 
effort  was  ever  made  to  find  her,  and  for  more  than 
two  years  the  sisters  lived  in  the  same  city,  and 
possibly  met  sometimes  in  the  street,  as  Ruth  rode 
with  Mrs.  Rivers  in  her  luxurious  carriage,  and 
Rena  took  a  walk  with  a  teacher  or  older  girl. 
Then  Mrs.  Rivers  moved  to  Boston,  and  three  years 
after  Rena  was  sent  to  Oakfieid,  so  that  their  lives 
were  as  far  apart  from  each  other  as  they  were  dif- 
ferent in  incident. — Loved,  and  petted  and  caressed, 
Ruth,  to  whom  Mrs.  Rivers  gave   the   name  of 
Daisy,  had  no  wish  ungratified  which  money  could 
procure,  and  she  grew  up  a  beautiful  and  accom- 
plished woman,  retaining  still  the  same  sweet  un- 
selfishness of  disposition  and  gentleness  of  manner 
which  had  marked  her  childhood,  when  she  went 
hungry  that  little  Rena  might  be  fed.    At  eighteen 


204 


DAISY. 


she  was  married  to  the  nephew  of  her  so-called 
father,  and  after  the  birth  of  a  little  girl,  whom  she 
named  Irene,  she  seemed  perfectly  happy  until  her 
infant  died,  when  she  sank  into  a  weak,  peculiar 
state  of  mind  from  which  nothing  had  power  to 
rouse  her  until  Providence  directed  her  to  Oakfield. 
There  she  felt  at  home  from  the  first,  she  said  ;  the 
place  reminded  her  so  much  of  the  house  she  had 
heard  her  mother  describe  so  often. 

"  And,"  she  continued,  taking  up  her  story  where 
George  had  left  it,  "  I  never  thought  of  it  when  I 
first  came  here.  I  guess  I  did  not  think  of  any- 
thing, but  mother's  name  was  Harris — Agatha 
Harris — and  she  " 

Daisy  never  finished  the  sentence,  for  ere  another 
word  could  be  uttered  Grandpa  Harris  fell  heavily 
against  his  wife,  with  the  look  of  death  on  his  face. 
The  shock  was  too  great  for  him  to  bear,  and  they 
laid  him  fainting  upon  the  couch,  while  Aunt 
Hannah,  Daisy  and  Rena  bent  over  him,  trying  to 
restore  him  to  consciousness.  When  he  was  him- 
self again  and  able  to  listen,  it  needed  but  few  words 
more  to  convince  him  that  the  Rena  whom  he  loved 
already  as  his  own,  and  the  beautiful  Daisy,  whom 
he  looked  up  to  as  a  superior  being,  were  bo^h  the 
children  of   his  daughter,  whose  marriage  with 


DAISY. 


205 


Homer  Hastings  twenty-one  years  ago  that  very 
night  had  so  offended  him. 

Daisy  could  remember  very  little  of  her  own 
father.  He  had  been  kind,  she  knew,  and  they  had 
been  comfortable  while  he  lived,  but  after  his  death 
they  were  very  poor  till  her  mother  married  a  Mr. 
Cutler,  who  though  a  worthy  and  respectable  man, 
was  always  sickly,  and  died  soon  after  Rena's  birth. 

"  So  long  as  mother  lived,  we  did  pretty  well," 
Daisy  said.  "  She  took  in  sewing  and  T  went  for 
and  carried  home  the  work  ;  but  when  she  died  and 
we  sold  the  things  to  pay  the  doctor's  bill,  and 
keep  us  from  starving,  it  was  so  hard ;  then  I 
peddled  in  the  street  and  tried  to  earn  a  living,  and 
tried  to  be  good  and  remember  all  mother  had 
taught  me,  but  sometimes,  when  I  was  so  cold,  and 
nobody  bought,  and  the  lacjtes  held  their  purses 
tight  if  I  came  near  them,  and  the  newsboys  halloed 
after  me,  and  Rena  was  home  so  hungry  waiting  for 
me,  I  thought  God  had  forgotten  us  :  but  Rena 
never  did.  Her  faith  was  always  strong,  and  her 
sweet,  baby  words  of  comfort  kept  my  heart  from 
breaking." 

They  were  all  sobbing  but  Daisy,  who  alone 
was  calm,  as  she  went  over  the  dreadful  past  which 
was  now  done  with  forever.    Cold,  nor  hunger,  nor 


206 


DAISY. 


insult,  would  ever  touch  Daisy  again,  and,  as  some 
great  shock  frequently  unsettles  the  mind,  so,  con- 
trarywise,  it  sometimes  restores  it,  and  the  excite- 
ment and  surprise  of  finding  her  sister  and  friends 
seemed  to  restore  Daisy's  reason  wholly,  and  after 
a  moment  she  said,  as  she  put  her  hand  to  her  head 
and  turned  to  her  husband  with  one  of  her  bright- 
est smiles,  "It  is  all  gone, — the  confusion  and  un- 
certainty. Every  thing  is  clear  as  it  was  before 
baby  died.  I  am  myself  once  more.  Thank  God  for 
giving  me  back  my  mind  with  all  the  other  bless- 
ings." 

She  did  seem  perfectly  sane,  and  never  was  there 
a  happier  family  group  than  that  at  the  farm-house 
on  that  Christmas  eve.  They  did  not  go  to  the 
church,  for  they  felt  that  their  joy  was  something 
with  which  strangers  had  nothing  to  do,  and  they 
kept  the  festival  at  home  and  talked  together  of  all 
the  wonderful  ways  through  which  God  had  led 
them,  until  the  bell  of  the  church  across  the  common 
rang  for  twelve  and  another  Christmas  morn  was 
ushered  in. 

Rena  had  her  book  at  last, — the  story  of  Bethle- 
hem,— and  though  many  costlier  presents  have  been 
given  her  since,  she  prizes  none  of  them  so  much  as 
that  "  sweet  story  of  old  "  which  came  to  her  with 


DAISY. 


207 


the  sister  she  had  believed  to  be  dead.  Her  home 
proper  is  in  the  city  now,  with  Daisy,  where  her 
winters  are  spent,  and  where  Grandpa  and  Grand- 
ma Harris  often  come  ;  but,  all  through  the  summer 
months,  she  stays  at  the  old  farm-house  with  Daisy 
and  the  sturdy  boy  who  has  taken  the  place  of  the 
little  Irene.  Uncle  Obed  always  goes  to  the  Christ- 
mas festival  in  the  old  church,  and  though  his 
voice  trills  and  shakes  a  little,  he  does  not  stop  for 
that,  but  with  a  silent  thanksgiving  in  his  heart  for 
the  children  restored  to  him,  joins  heartily  in  the 
"  Peace  on  earth,  and  good  will  toward  men,"  which 
goes  up  to  Heaven  from  so  many  tongues  on  that, 
night  of  nights — that  "  wonderful  night  M  when — 

"  Down  o'er  the  stars  to  restore  us, 
Leading  His  flame-winged  chorus. 
Comes  the  Eternal  to  sight  : — 
Wonderful,  wonderful  night !" 


THE  END 
OF 

RUTH  AND  RENA. 


BENNIE'S  CHRISTMAS. 


CHAPTER  I. 

bennie's  home. 

T  was  very  cold  down  in  the  old  lumber 
yard  which  skirted  the  canal,  and 
Bennie's  little  hands  were  numb  and 
blue  as  he  gathered  the  bits  of  boards 
and  shingles  and  piled  them  in  his  basket,  until  it 
seemed  as  if  so  small  a  boy  as  he  could  not  lift  the 
heavy  load.  But  Bennie  was  used  to  burdens  and 
hardships ;  indeed,  he  would  hardly  have  known 
himself  without  them,  and  when  the  basket  was  full 
he  took  it  in  both  his  hands  and  walked  slowly 
along  the  towpath  towards  the  miserable  hovel  he 
called  his  home.  As  he  came  near  the  bridge  a 
young  lady  was  going  up  the  stone  steps  which  lead 
to  the  street  above,  and  with  her  was  a  little  boy 
[208] 


BENNIE '8  HOME. 


209 


just  Bennie's  age,  but  so  different  in  looks  and 
dress  and  general  appearance  that  one  could  not  fail 
to  notice  the  contrast  at  once.  Clad  in  a  warm 
winter  suit  of  the  latest  style  Wallie  Morgan  knew 
nothing  of  cold  or  hunger  and  cruel  neglect,  and 
the  sight  of  Bennie,  with  his  ragged  clothes  and  old 
slouched  cap  roused  the  boy  nature  and  he  called 
out,  "  Halloo,  there,  tow-head  !  What  are  you  steal- 
ing chips  for  from  my  father's  lumber  yard  ?  I  mean 
to  tell  him  of  you,  Mr.  Out-at-the-knees." 

"Hush,  Wallie  !"  said  the  young  lady  whose  face 
was  very  sweet,  "  you  should  not  speak  so  to  the 
little  boy.  He  looks  very  poor  and  very  cold* 
Come  here,  boy,  and  tell  me  your  name  and  where 
you  live." 

She  held  her  hand  towards  the  child,  who  was 
scowling  defiantly  at  Wallie,  but  who,  at  the  sound 
of  her  voice,  seemed  intuitively  to  recognize  an  ally 
in  her,  and  replied  :  "  He  'alius  calls  me  tow-head, 
or  out-at-the-knees,  'cause  my  hair's  white  and  my 
trouses  is  tore.  I  can't  help  it,  I  didn't  make  my- 
self." 

"Who  did  make  you?"  the  young  girl  asked, 
and  Bennie  replied,  "  I  dunno,  mother's  dead  and 
pa  gets  drunk.    I  dunno  nothing." 

"  Don't  know  who  made  you  !    That's  dreadful," 


210 


BENNIE '8  HOME, 


the  lady  said.  "  Why,  you  poor  child,  you  must 
come  to  Sunday  school  and  into  my  class  and  I  will 
tell  you  about  God.  Will  you  come  next  Sunday  ? 
It  is  the  church  on  the  corner." 

"Will  he  be  there?"  Bennie  asked,  nodding 
towards  Wallie. 

"  Yes,  he  is  in  my  class,  and  I  am  his  Aunt  Nellie  ; 
but  he  will  be  very  kind  to  you.  He  is  not  a  bad 
boy.  Come,  and  perhaps  you  may  get  something 
at  Christmas.    Do  you  know  what  that  is  ?" 

"Yes,  it's  when  the  old  chap  fetches  things  down 
the  chimbly  ;  but  he  never  brung  me  none.  We're 
poor,  and  Hetty  keeps  house  and  runs  the  streets 
all  the  time,  and  Mag  and  I  is  alone.  I'll  tell 
Maggie,  and  mayby  she'll  come.  She's  got  a  new 
gown  Miss  Katy  give  her.  I  must  go  now,  we  are 
goin'  to  have  hasty  puddin'  for  dinner." 

He  took  his  heavy  basket  and  almost  staggering 
under  the  load  walked  slowly  away.  As  usual  at 
that  time  of  day  Hetty  was  out,  but  Maggie,  a  dark 
faced  girl  of  twelve,  was  waiting  for  him,  and  with 
her  help  a  fire  was  soon  kindled  in  the  old  broken 
stove,  and  the  hasty  pudding,  of  which  Bennie  had 
spoken,  was  boiling  and  bubbling  in  the  one  kettle 
the  miserable  house  afforded. 

"  I  wish  we  had  some  'lasses,  don't  you  ?"  Bennie 


BENNIE' S  HOME. 


211 


said,  as  Maggie  poured  into  his  dish  more  than  half 
of  the  blue  milk  she  had  begged  of  a  neighbor. 

But  molasses  was  a  luxury  quite  beyond  the 
means  of  the  Hewitts,  and  so  Bennie  ate  his  pudding 
and  skimmed  milk,  and  told  Maggie  of  Wallie 
Morgan  who  had  called  him  tow-heard  and  of  the 
beautiful  lady  who  had  invited  him  to  Sunday 
school. 

"  Yes  that's  Nellie  Morgan,  his  aunt  ;  his 
mother's  dead,  and  she  keeps  house  and  has  a  class, 
a  big  one,  in  Sunday  school,  and  give  Jane  Shaw  a 
doll  and  a  dress  and  lots  of  candy  and  pop-corn  last 
Christmas,  and  her  brother  Tim  got  a  top  and  a 
whip." 

"  My,  that's  jolly  ;  less  go  to  her  class  next  Sun- 
day," Bennie  said,  his  fancy  caught  with  the  top 
and  the  whip,  and  the  shoes  which  would  keep  his 
little  red  toes  from  the  cold. 

But  Bennie  was  a  delicate  child  and  when  Sun- 
day came  he  was  sick  and  lay  on  an  old  rug  in  a 
little  room  off  from  the  kitchen  where  he  was  safe 
from  his  drunken  father,  while  Maggie  went  to 
church  and  into  Miss  Morgan's  class. 

That  day  was  a  new  era  in  Maggie's  life,  and  un- 
mindful of  the  bitter  cold  which  struck  through 
her  thin  garments  and  made  her  shiver  involun- 


312 


BENNIE HOME. 


tarily,  she  hurried  home  to  Bennie  with  the  picture 
card  she  had  received  and  the  wonderful  story  she 
had  heard  of  Jesus'  birth-day  and  the  baby  born 
among  the  cows  and  oxen  in  that  far-off  manger  in 
Bethlehem.  Wonderingly  Bennie  listened,  asking 
innumerable  questions  about  the  child  ;  was  he  ever 
cold,  or  hungry,  and  was  he  afraid  of  the  cattle,  and 
did  his  father  get  drunk  and  thrash  him  ?  To  all 
these  inquiries  Maggie  answered  no  decidedly,  but 
when  Bennie  asked  if  he  really  could  hear  what 
every  body  said  and  would  give  them  what  they 
wanted,  Maggie  was  doubtful.  She  thought,  how- 
ever, they  better  try  it,  and  so  the  two  forlorn  little 
ones  knelt  down  as  Maggie  said  they  did  in  church 
and  tried  to  pray.  But  neither  knew  what  to  say 
and  when  Bennie  suggested  that  his  sister  ought  to 
know  "  'cause  she'd  been  to  meetin',"  she  answered, 
"  I  know  they  said  Our  Father,  I  am  sure  of  that." 

But  Bennie  scoffed  at  this  idea,  "  That  baby  in 
the  hay  our  father  !  Why,  pa  is  drunk  down  to  the 
grocery  !" 

As  well  as  she  could,  Maggie  explained,  drawing 
some  from  her  imagination,  some  from  what  Miss 
Morgan  had  told  her,  and  some  from  faint  remem- 
brances of  a  time  when  her  mother,  who  died  at 
Bennie's  birth,  had  taught  her  of  God  and  Heaven. 


Bwimims  HOME, 


213 


Half  convinced,  half  doubtful  still,  Bennie  tried 
again,  and  said,  "  Our  Father,  if  you  is  my  father, 
and  was  oncet  a  little  boy  like  me,  give  me  some- 
thing to  eat  and  some  gooder  trouses  and  shoes, 
and  a  pair  of  lines  on  the  tree  when  you  have  your 
birth  night." 

"  For  Christ's  sake  ;  say  that,"  Maggie  whispered, 
and  Bennie  rejoined,  "  Who's  he  !  I  shan't  do  it.  I'm 
not  goin'  to  get  'em  mixed,  I'll  stick  to  Our  Father." 

And  surely  the  good  Father,  who  is  so  kind  and 
pitiful  to  the  little  ones,  heard  that  prayer  of  the 
ignorant  child,  and  would  in  His  own  time  and  way 
answer  it. 


214  BENNIE'S   FIRST  CHRISTMAS. 


CHAPTER  II. 

BENNIE'S  FIRST  CHRISTMAS. 

HE  snow  had  fallen  all  day  long,  and  from 
the  window  of  his  wretched  home  Bennie 
had  watched  the  feathery  flakes  as  they 
fell  in  perfect  clouds,  covering  the  old 
lumber  yard  where  only  yesterday  he  had  gathered 
his  basket  of  wood  and  chips,  covering  the  tow 
path  which  skirted  the  canal,  and  covering  the  roofs 
of  all  the  houses  as  far  as  he  could  see.  It  was  the 
first  genuine  snow  of  the  season,  and  he  wanted  to 
enjoy  it  as  he  saw  some  school-boys  doing  on  the 
bridge,  but  his  toes  were  out  of  his  shoes,  and  his 
elbows  were  out  of  his  jacket  and  there  was  that 
little  hacking  cough  to  which  he  was  subject  every 
winter,  and  which  this  season  was  worse  than  usual 
and  kept  him  awake  at  night.  He  had  learned  that 
wet  feet  and  chilled  limbs  increased  it,  and  he 
dreaded  to  lie  all  daylong  in  that  dreary  little  bed- 
room, with  no  fire  and  nothing  pleasant  to  look  at. 


BENNIE  \8   FIRST    CHRISTMAS.  215 


From  his  mother,  who  had  been  his  father's  superior 
in  every  respect,  he  had  inherited  a  love  of  the 
beautiful,  an  appreciation  of  comfort  and  pretty 
things,  which  made  the  squalor  around  more  offen- 
sive, and  he  could  not  endure  the  thought  of  being 
sick  again,  as  he  was  a  month  ago,  when  he  was 
soaked  in  a  rain  and  had  the  cough  so  badly  ;  and 
then,  he  wanted  to  go  to  the  Christmas-tree  that 
night,  and  Hetty  had  said  that  he  "  should  not  stir  a 
step  if  there  was  any  sign  of  his  coughing,  for  she 
would  not  be  bothered  with  a  sick  young  one 
again. "  So,  lest  he  should  take  cold  and  cough 
Bennie  staid  in  doors  all  day  and  watched  the  fall- 
ing snow,  and  late  in  the  afternoon  hailed  with 
delight  a  rosy  cloud  in  the  west  which  said  the 
storm  was  over.  It  was  not  very  cold,  and  when 
the  sun  went  down  and  the  full  moon  rose  up  over 
the  carpet  of  pure  white  snow  Bennie  thought  he 
had  never  seen  so  beautiful  a  night,  or  felt  as  happy 
as  he  did  when  starting  for  the  church,  with  Maggie 
as  his  chaperone.  She  had  been  three  times  to 
Sunday  school  and  when  Miss  Morgan  asked  for  the 
little  boy  seen  that  cold  day  in  the  lumber  yard, 
Maggie  had  told  her  of  his  ragged  clothes  and  worn- 
out  shoes,  and  Miss  Nellie,  who  was  like  an  angel 
of  mercy  in  the  homes  of  the  poor,  had  made  a  note 


216  BENNIE 'S   FIRST  CHRISTMAS. 


of  it ;  determining  after  Christmas  was  over  to  find 
the  child  and  do  what  she  could  for  him. 

It  was  early  when  Maggie  and  Bennie  entered 
the  church,  but  they  found  it  nearly  full,  and 
abashed  at  the  sight  of  so  many  strangers  and 
attracted  by  the  heat  of  the  registers  Bennie  insisted 
upon  staying  by  them,  near  the  door  where  he  was 
jostled  by  the  crowd  and  jeered  at  by  some  thought- 
less boys  who  made  fun  of  his  old  clothes  and  asked 
"  what  he  would  take  for  himself,  rags  and  all."  But 
Bennie  bore  their  jeers  meekly  and  only  doubled 
his  fist  once,  so  intent  was  he  upon  the  tree  in  the 
chancel,  bending  with  its  hundreds  of  gifts.  He 
had  never  dreamed  of  anything  like  that,  and  his 
belief  in  Bethlehem's  baby  grew  stronger  as  he  saw 
this  tangible  commemoration  of  his  birth  night. 
How  fine  it  all  was,  and  how  splendidly  the  rector 
looked  in  his  white  robe,  and  how  grandly  the 
music  of  the  organ  rolled  through  the  aisles,  making 
the  floor  tremble  under  his  feet,  and  causing  him  to 
start  a  little  and  look  down  to  see  what  was  the 
matter.  And  when  the  children  began  one  of  their 
Christmas  carols  and  sang  of  the  "Silent  night,  the 
holy  night,"  Bennie  felt  a  strange  thrill  creep  over 
him  and  every  nerve  quivered  with  excitement  as 
he  listened  to  the  words  : 


BENNIES    FIRST  CHRISTMAS. 


217 


M  All  is  calm, — all  is  bright 
HKf^V  *-r .       /     *  *  *  * 

Glories  stream  from  Heaven  afar, 
Heavenly  hosts  sing  Alleluia, 
Christ  the  Saviour  is  born." 

Was  Heaven,  of  which  Maggie  had  told  him  such 
wonderful  things,  any  better  than  this,  or  the 
children  there  happier  than  these  whose  faces  looked 
so  eager  and  expectant  as  they  went  up  to  the  tree, 
and  so  full  of  joy  when  they  came  back  ?  They  were 
calling  the  names  very  rapidly  now,  and  Bennie 
held  his  breath  to  hear,  and  watched  them  anxiously. 
Wallie  Morgan  seemed  to  be  a  favored  one,  for  he 
was  called  many  times,  and  when  he  came  back 
witn  a  pair  of  red  lines  with  little  tinkling  bells, 
Bennie  exclaimed  aloud,  "  Oh,  if  they'd  only  call 
me  /" 

Would  they?  Was  there  anything  for  him  on 
that  heavily  laden  tree  ?  There  were  gifts  for 
Johnnie  and  Jakie,  and  Susie  and  Freddie,  and  Sam, 
and  yes, — certain  and  true,  he  heard  his  name  at 
last,  or  something  like  it,  and  half  started  forward, 
when  a  rough  boy  caught  his  arm,  saying,  ".'Tain't 
you.    It's  a  gal." 

No,  it  was  not  Bennie,  but  it  was  Maggie,  his 
sister,  whose  name  he  had  heard  and  who  received 
10 


218  BENNIES   FIRST  CHRISTMAS. 


a  Bible  and  a  bundle  of  something  which  looked  like 
clothes. 

"  Maggie  Hewitt ;  Maggie  Hewitt,"  Bennie 
heard  a  woman  in  front  of  him  say.  "  That  is  a  new 
name.    Who  is  she  ?" 

"  Oh,  some  waif  Miss  Nellie  has  picked  up,  I 
dare  say,"  was  the  reply.  "  She  is  always  doing 
such  things,  you  know.  Isn't  she  beautiful  to- 
night with  that  long  feather  and  jaunty  sacque  ?" 

Bennie  thought  she  was  beautiful  and  watched 
her  admiringly  as  she  moved  among  her  pupils, 
sharing  their  joy  and  occasionally  trying  to  repress 
their  wild  spirits.  Johnnie  and  Jakie  and  Tommie 
again,  and  Susie  and  Katie  and  Anne,  but  no  Bennie 
Hewitt  ;  he  had  been  forgotten  ;  there  was  nothing 
for  him,  and  with  a  choking,  gasping  sensation  he 
stood,  holding  fast  to  the  pew  railing  in  front  of 
him,  while  the  grand  old  anthem  Glory  to  God  on 
High,  rang  through  the  church,  and  the  final  prayer 
was  said.  But  the  music  and  the  prayer  were 
nothing  to  him  now  ;  faith  in  Bethlehem's  baby 
was  gone,  and  his  little  heart  was  as  empty  of 
happiness  as  the  tall  tree  was  of  gifts,  and  as  full  of 
bitter  disappointment  as  the  church  was  of  people, 
ali  moving  out  and  crowding  him  as  they  went. 
Maggie   had  been  near  the  chancel   with  Miss 


BENNIES   FIRST    CHRISTMAS.  219 


Morgan's  class,  and  when  at  last  she  came  there 
were  few  left  in  the  church,  and  these  were  gathered 
about  the  rector,  near  the  tree. 

"  Oh,  Ben,  see  what  I've  got ;  a  bran  new 
gown,"  Maggie  said,  as  she  caught  sight  of  her 
brother. 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice  Bennie's  pent-up  grief 
gave  way,  and  a  low,  piteous,  wailing  cry  reached 
the  ear  of  Nellie  Morgan,  who,  in  a  moment  was  at 
Bennie's  side  asking  what  was  the  matter. 

"  Everybody  got  somethin'  but  me,  and  I  never 
had  a  darned  thing.  I  thought  the  baby  in  the  stable 
would  bring  me  suthin';  I  asked  him  this  mornin' 
would  he." 

This  was  the  sobbing  reply  of  the  little  ragged 
boy  who  cried  as  if  his  heart  would  break,  while 
Nellie  tried  to  comfort  him.  In  the  multiplicity  of 
her  cares  she  had  forgotten  him,  and  she  felt  so 
grieved  and  sorry,  until  an  idea  struck  her.  There 
were  a  few  whispered  words  to  Wallie,  whose  hands 
were  full,  and  then  turning  to  Bennie,  she  asked 
what  he  wanted  most. 

"  Some  lines  and  some  shoes,"  he  said,  and  glanc- 
ing at  his  thin,  worn  boots,  Nellie  replied,  "  Poor 
boy,  you  do  need  shoes,  and  you  shall  have  them 
to-morrow,  while  the  lines, — "  she  turned  appeal- 


220  BENNWS   FIRST  CHRISTMAS. 


ingl)  to  Wallie,  who,  after  a  momentary  struggle, 
laid  the  lines  in  her  hand.  "  Yes/'  she  continued, 
"  you  shall  have  the  lines  to-night.  Wallie  gives 
them  to  you,  and  is  sorry  for  the  naughty  words  he 
said  to  you  the  other  day.  Now,  shake  hands  and 
be  friends  with  him." 

Such  generosity  and  self-denial  were  more  than 
Bennie  could  comprehend,  and  he  stood  staring 
blankly  at  Wallie,  while  his  lip  quivered  and  the 
tears  rained  down  his  cheek. 

"  Git  out !  Yer  only  foolin',"  he  said,  while  the 
glimmer  of  a  smile  showed  round  his  mouth. 

Wallie  had  felt  like  crying  himself,  but  at  the 
sight  of  tears  in  another  he  assumed  a  show  of  man- 
liness and  answered,  "  No,  I  ain't  foolin'.  I  want 
you  to  have  'em.  Auntie  can  knit  me  some  more. 
They  are  three  yards  long.  Look  !"  and  with  a  swift 
movement  he  threw  them  across  Ben's  neck,  ex- 
claiming, "  Get  up  there  !  Go  'long  !" 

Quick  as  thought  Ben  started  off  on  a  brisk 
canter,  with  sundry  little  squeals  and  kicking  up  of 
heels,  and  before  the  astonished  rector  could  stop 
it  the  two  boys  had  made  the  entire  circuit  of  the 
church,  one  as  driver  and  the  other  as  horse  !  It 
was  an  unprecedented  thing,  but  Bennie  knew  no 
better,  and  Wallie  would  not  admit  that  he  was 


BENNIE'S   FIRST    CHRISTMAS.  221 


sorry.  It  was  the  greatest  fun,  he  said,  and  Ben  was 
the  nicest  kind  of  a  horse,  because  he  squealed  and 
kicked  up  so  good  !  To  Bennie  that  race  was, 
perhaps,  the  best  part  of  the  festival,  though  the 
next  day  was  to  him  the  real  Christmas,  the  white 
day  of  his  life,  which  he  never  forgot.  There  was 
much  cheer  and  festivity  at  the  Morgan  house  that 
Christmas  time,  for  many  guests  were  staying  there, 
and  Nellie,  as  the  mistress,  had  numberless  duties 
to  perform,  but  she  did  not  forget  her  promise  to 
little  Ben,  and  just  before  the  bell  at  St.  Luke's  rang 
for  the  morning  service,  the  Morgan  carriage 
stopped  at  the  wretched  house  where  the  Hewitts 
lived,  and  Nellie  entered  the  cold,  dirty  room,  laden 
with  gifts  for  Bennie.  There  was  a  warm  suit  of 
Wallie's  half  worn  clothes,  a  pair  of  shoes,  with 
mittens  and  tippet,  a  book  of  pictures,  and  a  horse 
on  wheels,  which,  possibly,  pleased  the  little  boy 
more  than  all  the  rest.  He  was  very  happy  and 
proud  in  his  new  clothes,  and  when  the  next  Sunday 
came  and  Nellie  Morgan  joined  her  class  in  Sunday 
school  Bennie  was  the  first  one  she  saw,  his  face  all 
aglow  with  excitement  and  eager  expectancy. 
Forlorn  and  despised  as  he  was,  he  was  no  ordinary 
child,  and  the  quickness  with  which  he  compre- 
hended her  and  the  aptness  of  his  replies  and  ques- 


222  BENNIE'S   FIRST  CHRISTMAS. 


tionings  surprised  and  interested  Miss  Nellie,  who 
felt  that  she  had  known  the  child  for  years,  so  fast 
did  he  gain  upon  her  love  during  that  first  hour  of 
teaching.  Regularly  every  Sunday  after  that, 
through  sunshine  and  storm,  Bennie  was  in  his 
place,  his  lesson  always  perfect,  and  his  brain 
full  of  the  puzzling  thoughts  which  had  come  to 
him  during  the  week,  and  which  only  Miss  Nellie 
could  explain.  Of  the  child  Jesus  he  was  never 
tired  of  hearing,  and  the  story  of  Bethlehem  was  told 
him  again  and  again  until  he  knew  it  by  heart,  and 
prompted  both  Miss  Morgan  and  his  sister  if,  in 
telling  it,  they  deviated  ever  so  little  from  the  orig- 
inal. Of  Calvary  and  its  agony  he  did  not  care  to 
hear.  There  was  something  horrible  to  him  in  that 
three  hours'  suffering,  and  the  darkened  sky  and 
opening  graves,  and  he  would  far  rather  think  of 
Christ  as  a  little  child  sleeping  on  a  mound  of  hay, 
or  playing  by  the  door  of  his  home  in  Nazareth. 

"Seems  if  I  got  nearer  to  Him,  and  He  was 
sorrier  for  me  when  I'm  cold  and  hungry  and  father 
licks  me  so  hard  for  nothin',"  he  said,  and  his 
prayers  were  mostly  said  to  the  baby  boy  he  had 
first  heard  about,  and  we  have  no  doubt  that  God 
listened  with  love  and  sympathy  for  the  poor  child 
who  sometimes  asked  so  touchingly,  "Was you  ever 


BENNIE'S   FIRST    CHRISTMAS.  223 


hungry,  dear  Jesus,  and  be  flogged  and  cuffed  as  I 
am  when  I  hain't  done  nothing  and  did  the  snow 
come  into  your  winder  and  cover  the  front  of  your 
bed,  and  make  you  so  cold  at  night?" 

At  first  Bennie's  prayers  were  mostly  interroga- 
tories of  the  Lord  with  regard  to  His  early  life ; 
but  as  he  learned  more  from  the  faithful  Nellie,  he 
came  at  last  to  ask  for  what  he  wanted  in  his  own 
peculiar  way,  and  God,  who  always  hears  and 
answers  the  prayer  of  faith  like  Bennie's,  heard  and 
answered  him,  as  we  shall  see  in  our  next  chapter. 


224         BENNIE'S   SECOND  CHRISTMAS. 


CHAPTER  III. 

BENNIE's    SECOND  CHRISTMAS. 

HE  year  had  rolled  round  swiftly,  and  the 
little  ones  of  St.  Luke's  were  again  look- 
ing eagerly  forward  to  Christmas  Eve 
and  the  wonderful  tree,  which  all  the 
summer  long  had  been  growing  down  by  the  lake 
and  gathering  new  beauty  and  strength  for  the  task 
it  was  to  perform.  It  was  in  the  cellar  of  St.  Luke's 
now,  and  the  ladies  and  children  were  busy  trim- 
ming the  little  stone  church  on  the  corner,  and 
Maggie  Hewitt  was  with  them,  holding  twine  and 
pulling  twigs  for  Miss  Nellie,  at  whose  side  she 
hovered  constantly,  and  whom  some  of  the  young 
girls  called  "Miss  Morgan's  shadow."  But  Bennie 
was  not  there,  and  if  you  had  gone  down  on  the  tow 
path  that  winter  day  and  entered  the  room,  into 
which  the  snow  used  to  drift  at  night,  and  where 
Bennie  used  to  hide  away  from  his  drunken,  crazy 
father,  you  would  scarcely  have  known  the  place. 


BENN2JBT8   SECOND    CHRISTMAS.  225 


Nellie  Morgan  had  proved  the  good  angel  of  that 
house,  as  of  many  others,  and  discovering  that 
appreciation  of  tidiness  and  comfort  which  Bennie 
possessed  to  so  great  a  degree,  she  had  made  his 
surroundings  as  pleasant  as  possible  under  the  cir- 
cumstances. Bennie  was  a  delicate  child,  and  often 
sick  for  days  and  even  weeks,  and  when  Miss  Nellie 
found  how  distasteful  to  him  was  that  dingy,  dreary 
room  where  the  broken  window  was  stuffed  with 
rags,  and  the  damp,  stained  paper  hung  in  strips  on 
the  wall,  she  went  to  work  with  a  will,  and  many  an 
article  of  cast-off  furniture  found  its  way  from  the 
garret  of  the  Morgan  house  to  the  hut  on  the  tow 
path,  and  in  comparison  with  his  condition  one  year 
ago,  Bennie  now  lodged  like  a  prince,  and  felt 
almost  as  happy  as  one.  There  was  fresh  paper  on 
the  walls,  the  window  was  mended,  and  a  clean 
white  curtain  hung  before  it  ;  a  strip  of  carpet 
covered  the  floor,  and  Bennie's  bed  was  a  wide, 
capacious  crib,  which  had  once  been  Wallie  Mor- 
gan's ;  and  there,  propped  up  with  pillows  and  clad 
in  a  bright  dressing-gown,  Bennie  lay  that  Decem- 
ber day  when  his  sister  Maggie  was  busy  at  the 
church  where  he  so  longed  to  be.  A  severe  cold 
had  settled  on  his  lungs,  and  for  weeks  he  had  kept 
10* 


226         BENNIE' S   SECOND  CHRISTMAS. 


in  doors,  trying  to  subdue  the  tickling  cough, 
which  harassed  him  day  and  night. 

"  Oh,  if  I  only  can  be  well  by  Christmas,  I  want 
to  see  Jesus'  birth  night  once  more.  Do  you  think 
he'll  let  me  go  ?"  he  would  say  to  Miss  Nellie,  when 
she  came,  as  she  often  did,  to  see  him,  and  with 
tears  in  her  eyes  Nellie  would  smooth  the  light  hair 
of  the  little  boy  who  had  grown  so  fast  into  her  love, 
and  answer  that  she  hoped  so,  when  all  the  time 
there  was  a  great  fear  in  her  heart  that  never  again 
would  Bennie  celebrate  the  Saviour's  birth  night. 

But  she  would  not  tell  him  so  then,  for  she  felt 
sure  that  he  was  one  of  the  little  ones  of  whom  our 
Savior  said  "  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  Heaven." 
Her  labor  had  not  been  in  vain  so  far  as  Bennie  was 
concerned.  With  astonishing  avidity  he  had  seized 
upon  her  words  of  instruction,  and  now,  whether 
awake  or  asleep,  the  baby  of  Bethlehem  was  always 
present  with  him,  the  friend  to  whom  he  told  his 
joys  and  griefs  and  to  whom  he  often  prayed  for  his 
drunken  father,  his  idle,  wicked  sister  Hetty,  and 
his  other  sister,  Maggie,  whom  he  loved  so  well. 

Such  a  child  could  not  fail  to  influence  any 
household  for  good,  and  it  was  observed  by  many 
that  Mr.  Hewitt  worked  more  steadily,  and  was  not 
intoxicated  so  often  as  of  old,  while  Hetty  was  less 


BENNIE'S   SECOND    CHRISTMAS.  227 


in  the  street  and  never  brought  her  vile,  noisy  com- 
panions to  disturb  her  sick  brother.  And  Bennie 
was  very  happy  except  when  he  thought  of  the 
Christmas  Festival  and  his  desire  to  attend  it. 

"  Please,  Jesus  of  Bethlehem,  let  me  be  well 
enough  to  go  there  just  this  once  and  hear  my  name 
called  from  the  tree,  will  you,  and  I'll  be  so  good 
and  not  fret  at  Mag  when  my  side  aches  and  I 
cough  so  hard." 

This  was  Bennie's  prayer,  or  the  substance  of  it, 
said  often  to  himself,  but  for  once  God  did  not 
seetn  to  hear  the  little  boy,  for  his  cough  daily  grew 
worse,  the  pallor  about  his  lips  grew  deeper,  the 
red  on  his  thin  cheeks  redder,  and  his  great  blue 
eyes  had  in  them  that  bright,  glassy  look  which 
only  the  eyes  of  consumptives  wear. 

I  can't  go  ;  he  won't  let  me,"  he  said,  with  a 
burst  of  tears,  the  morning  before  Christmas  to 
Miss  Nellie,  who  had  come  down  to  see  him,  and 
who  tried  to  comfort  him  by  saying  that  he  would 
be  remembered  just  the  same,  and  that  his  presents 
would  be  new  to  him  Christmas  morning. 

"'Tain't  that,"  he  answered  with  quivering  lip, 
"'Tain't  the  presents.  It's  going  up  myself  and 
feeiing  that  he  counts  me  in  as  one  of  'em,  I  want  to 


228         BENFIE'S   SECOND  CHRISTMAS. 


hear  Him  call  my  name, — Bennie  Hewitt,  and  know 
how  it  sounds." 

It  was  a  fancy  of  his  that  Jesus  himself  called 
the  names  of  the  little  ones,  and  Nellie  did  not  try 
to  dispel  the  illusion.  Jesus  would  call  him  soon, 
she  was  sure,  and  with  a  kiss  and  a  promise  to  come 
again  on  the  morrow  she  left  him  and  went  back  to 
the  church  where  she  was  busy  all  the  day  with 
Maggie  as  her  constant  aid.  And  while  they 
trimmed  the  house  of  God  and  hung  their  gifts 
upon  the  tree,  little  Bennie  lay  in  his  crib  thinking 
about  it  and  of  the  tree  of  life,  of  which  Nellie  had 
once  read  to  him.  Would  he  ever  see  that  tree,  and 
would  there  be  something  on  it  for  him,  and  could 
he  bathe  his  burning  cheeks  and  hands  in  that  pure 
river  of  water,  and  wouldn't  it  be  nice  to  have  no 
nights  to  cough  so  in,  and  no  need  of  sun  or  moon 
to  light  those  golden  streets. 

It  was  nearly  dark  when  Maggie  came  in,  full  of 
the  beautiful  church  and  the  tree  on  which  were  so 
many  curious  things. 

"  Something  for  you,"  she  said  to  Bennie.  "  I 
saw  more  than  one,  and  I'll  bring  'em  to  you  when 
it's  out.  Don't  cry,  Bennie,  I'm  so  sorry  you  can't 
gc  with  me.    Next  year  you  will." 

"No,  Maggie,  I  shall  never  go — never  hear  my 


BENNIE' S   SECOND    CHRISTMAS.  229 


name/'  Bennie  tried  to  say,  but  a  fit  of  coughing 
severer  than  any  he  had  ever  had  came  on  and  the 
cloth  he  held  to  his  lips  was  stained  with  blood. 

Neither  Hetty  nor  Mag  knew  the  danger,  or 
what  those  crimson  stains  portended,  and  both  went 
to  the  church  leaving  their  father  with  Bennie,  who 
at  first  lay  very  still  and  seemed  to  be  asleep  ;  then 
he  began  to  grow  restless  and  asked  his  father  to 
read  to  him  of  the  u  golden  city  where  the  gates 
stand  always  open  and  there  is  neither  sun  nor 
moon." 

But  Mr.  Hewitt  was  unused  to  the  Bible,  and  did 
not  know  where  to  find  that  description  of  the  New 
Jerusalem  of  which  Bennie  talked  so  much,  some- 
times coherently  and  sometimes  not,  for  his  mind 
wandered  a  little  and  was  now  in  "  Jerusalem  the 
golden,  with  milk  and  honey  blest,"  where  the  tree 
of  life  was  growing  and  where  Christ's  name  was 
written  on  the  foreheads  of  his  children,  and  then 
at  the  church  where  the  names  were  called,  his  per- 
haps, and  he  bade  his  father  listen  and  tell  him  if 
he  heard  it. 

"  I  can't  go  up,"  he  said,  "  I'm  so  sick,  but 
Maggie  will  bring  them,  and  next  year  I  shall  see 
that  other  tree  in  the  New  Jerusalem,  I  guess  I  will, 
I  mean,  for  I  have  tried  to  be  good  since  she  told 


230         BENNIE  "S   SECOND  CHRISTMAS. 


me  how,  and  V  ve  prayed  to  Jesus  every  day.  Do 
you  love  Him,  father  ?" 

There  was  no  answer  from  the  rough-faced  man 
who  sat  watching  his  child  with  a  pain  in  his  heart 
such  as  he  had  not  felt  in  years. 

"  Father  !"  and  Bennie's  voice  was  very  low  and 
pleading,  "  You  ain't  drunk  now  one  bit." 

"  No,  by  Jove,  no,"  came  emphatically  from  the 
father's  lips,  and  Bennie  continued,  "  Don't  ever  be 
so  any  more,  will  you  ?  Promise  me,  father, 
promise  your  little  sick  boy,  who  is  going  to  die." 

"  No,  Bennie,  you  must  not  die,  and  I've  been  so 
hard  on  you,  and  flogged  you  when  I  was  in  drink," 
Mr.  Hewitt  sobbed,  laying  his  head  upon  the  pillow, 
while  Bennie  went  on:  "But  I've  forgiven  that, 
father,  and  I  was  naughty  sometimes,  and  called 
you  names  and  made  faces  at  you  when  you  did  not 
see  me.  I'm  sorry  for  it  now,  and  when  I'm  gone 
remember  me  as  I  was  at  the  best,  when  I  tried  to 
be  good,  and,  father,  don't  drink  any  more,  please 
keep  sober,  for  Maggie's  sake,  and  Hetty's  ;  will 
you?    Say  you  will  ;  say  it,  father,  quick." 

His  wasted  hand  rested  lovingly  on  the  bowed 
head  of  his  father,  who  faltered  out:  "Yes,  Ben, 
I'll  try,  I  will,  so  help  me  God." 

"And  He  will  help  you,  father,  I'll  ask  Him, 


BENNIE  yS   SEGOND    CHRISTMAS.  231 


now  ;  He  will  hear  me  because  I  am  going  to  die," 
and  folding  his  hands  reverently,  Bennie  prayed, 
"Oh,  Jesus,  man  Jesus,  I  mean  ;  please  keep  father 
from  getting  drunk,  and  don't  let  him  trade  at  the 
groceries  where  they  sell  it ;  then  he  won't  see  it 
and  want  it  so  bad,  and  make  him  a  good  man,  for 
Christ's  sake." 

Bennie's  voice  ceased,  and  for  a  long  time  there 
was  silence  in  the  room,  broken  at  last  by  the  sound 
of  steps  outside,  and  Maggie  came  rushing  in,  her 
arms  full  of  presents  and  her  cheeks  glowing  with 
excitement  and  exercise.  But  she  stopped  quickly 
whemshe  caught  sight  of  Bennie's  face.  It  was  very 
white,  with  a  rapt  look  upon  it,  as  if  he  were  already 
lost  to  earth  and  was  listening  to  "  the  shouts  of 
them  who  triumph,  the  song  of  them  that  feast." 
But  her  voice  called  him  back  and  his  eyes  sparkled 
with  pleasure  for  a  moment  as  she  spread  his 
presents  before  him,  and  told  him  how  many  times 
his  name  had  been  called. 

"Six  times  ;  'most  as  often  as  Wallie  Morgan's  ; 
and  look,  here's  a  Christmas  card,  and  a  bran  new 
suit  of  clothes,  and  a  ball,  and  a  top,  and  a  jumping 
jack,  and — and — oh,  Bennie,  guess  what  else  ;  a  pair 
of  skates  from  Wallie  Morgan." 

She  had  kept  the  skates  for  the  last,  knowing 


232         BENNIE' S   SECOND  CHRISTMAS, 


how  her  brother  had  wanted  them,  and  now,  at 
sight  of  them,  he  did  seem  to  brighten  up,  and  took 
them  in  his  hands  and  examined  them  carefully  ; 
then,  laying  them  where  he  could  see  them,  he  said, 
"Yes,  I'm  so  glad,  and  they  are  all  so  good.  I'd 
like  to  skate  just  once.  I  know  I  could  beat  Tom 
Carter  in  a  little  while;  but,  Maggie,  I'm  going  to 
die.  It  came  to  me  to-night.  I'm  going  where  Jesus 
is,  and  pa  is  not  going  to  drink  anymore,  and  Hetty 
must  stay  home  nights,  and  you  must  be  a  real  good 
girl,  and  not  romp  and  tear  your  clothes  so  much." 

"Oh,  Bennie,  Bennie,"  and  all  the  brightness 
was  gone  from  Maggie's  face  as  she  dropped  beside 
the  bed,  and  seizing  her  brother's  hand  begged  of 
him  to  stay  with  her  and  not  leave  her  all  alone. 

"  Father  and  Hetty  will  be  with  you,  and  Jesus, 
too,"  the  pale  lips  whispered,  and  then  Bennie's 
mind  began  to  wander,  and  he  talked  strange  things 
of  the  Tree  of  Life,  which  he  said  was  hung  with 
tapers  and  beautiful  gifts,  some  of  which  were  for 
him,  and  he  listened  to  hear  his  name,  bidding  his 
father  and  sisters  keep  very  quiet  lest  he  should  fail 
to  catch  the  sound. 

All  night  they  sat  by  him,  scarcely  daring  to 
move,  while,  with  closed  eyes  and  parted  lips,  he  lay 
listening — listening — till  over  the  snow-clad  town 


BENNIE J8   SECOND    CHRISTMAS.  233 


the  grey  morning  broke  and  the  Christmas  chimes 
were  rung  from  the  church  tower  ;  then  with  a 
triumphant  voice  he  cried,  u  There,  he  has  called 
me  at  last  ,  little  Bennie  Hewitt,  he  said.  Didn't  you 
hear  his  voice?  He's  there,  with  something  for  me. 
I'm  going  now.  Good-bye.  Tell  Miss  Morgan  she 
told  me  the  way,  and  I  love  her  for  it.  I  wish  more 
ladies  would  hunt  up  the  poor  little  boys  on  the 
canal.  I'm  going  up  the  aisle,  and  the  music  is 
playing,  too.  Such  music  !  oh,  Maggie,  don't  you 
hear  it?  It's  better  than  the  '  Silent  Night,'  and  I 
hear  the  heavenly  hosts  sing  i  Alleluia.'  Little 
Bennie  Hewitt  they  call.  Yes,  I'm  coming — coming 
— coming.  A  golden  harp  and  golden  crown. 
That's  what  is  on  the  tree  for  me  and  joy  forever 
and  forever.  Good-bye,  good-bye,  good-bye." 
****** 
Little  Bennie  was  dead  and  the  Christmas  he 
had  looked  forward  to  so  eagerly  was  kept  with  the 
Saviour  he  loved,  and  when  Miss  Nellie  came  to 
inquire  for  him  she  found  only  a  white  wasted  form 
which  her  own  hands  made  ready  for  the  grave. 
The  new  suit  of  clothes  which  was  to  have  kept 
him  warm,  were  put  upon  him,  and  flowers  from  the 
Morgan  conservatory  were  placed  in  his  hands  and 
on  his  pillow,  and  over  the  little  coffin  bitter  tears 


234         BENNIE'S    SECOND  CHRISTMAS. 


were  shed  and  promises  were  renewed  as  the 
wretched  father  whispered  to  himself,  "  I'll  keep  my 
word  to  Ben.    I'll  try  to  be  a  man." 

There's  a  small  white  head  stone  near  the  gate  in 
the  Rosedale  Cemetery,  and  Bennie's  name  is  on  it. 

"  Bennie  Hewitt. 
Died  December  25,  1883, 
Aged  9  Years." 

Strangers  pass  it  by  and  think  nothing  of  it,  but 
God  knows  all  about  that  little  grave  and  the  boy 
sleeping  there,  and  when  the  Golden  City  shall 
indeed  come  down  and  Christ's  saints  be  gathered 
home,  Bennie  will  be  with  them,  where  there  is  no 
more  night,  or  need  of  sun  or  moon,  for  the  glory 
from  the  Eternal  Throne  transcends  the  light  of 
noonday  and  Christ  is  all  in  all. 

****** 

Does  my  story  seem  a  sad  one  to  you,  my  little 
readers  ?  In  one  sense  it  is,  and  in  another  it  is  not. 
It  is  always  sad  to  see  the  children  die,  but  when 
like  Bennie  they  go  from  cold  and  hunger  and  toil, 
to  be  forever  with  the  Lord  it  is  for  them  a  blessed 
thing,  so,  on  Christmas  morning  of  1884  do  not 
think  of  little  Bennie,  as  in  the  grave  where  they 
laid  him  one  year  ago,  but 


BENNIE'S   SECOND    CHRISTMAS.  235 


In  that  far  off,  happy  country 

Which  no  human  eye  hath  seen, 
Where  the  flowers  are  always  blooming, 

And  the  grass  is  ever  green. 

There  we  find  our  little  Bennie.  No  more  hungry- 
days  and  freezing  nights  and  cruel  blows  for  him, 
for  he  is  safe  forever.  Jesus  called  his  name,  and  he 
has  gone  to  that  beautiful  land  where  so  many  chil- 
dren are,  and  where,  I  prav,  we  too  may  meet  to  cel- 
ebrate our  Saviour's  birth  in  one  never  ending 
Christmas. 

Brown  Cottage, 

Chtutmas — 1 884. 


THE  END 
OF 

lENNIE's  CHRISTMAS 


THE  CHRISTMAS  FONT. 


CHAPTER  I. 

INTRODUCTORY. 

HEN  I  was  a  child,  as  young  as  some  of 
the  children  who  may  read  this  story, 
I  brought  from  the  Sunday  school  one 
afternoon  the  story  of  "  Ruth  Lee."  The 
day  was  warm  and  bright,  and  the  summer  sunshine 
fell  softly  on  the  grass  in  the  old  orchard,  where, 
beneath  an  apple-tree,  I  sat  down  to  read  about 
Ruth  and  her  half-brother  Reuben,  to  whom  she 
was  always  so  kind,  even  when  he  was  cross  and 
irritable.  The  story  was  not  a  long  one,  and  I  read 
it  very  rapidly,  growing  more  and  more  interested 
with  every  page,  and  wishing  so  much  that  I  knew 
just  where  the  brother  and  sister  lived,  and  if  Ruth 
still  watched  the  web  of  cloth  bleaching  on  the 
mountain-side,  or  Reuben  in  a  pet  threw  his  piece 
[2361 


INT  ROB  TIG  TOR  Y. 


237 


of  pie  over  the  ledge  of  rocks,  where  his  good, 
patient  sister  could  not  get  it.  To  me  every  word 
was  true.  I  believed  in  Ruth  and  Reuben.  I  knew 
just  how  they  looked — Ruth  with  her  grave, 
womanly  face  and  soft  brown  eyes,  and  Reuben 
with  his  rosy  cheeks,  and  round,  hard  head,  which 
he  sometimes  bumped  upon  the  floor  when  in  one 
of  his  passions.  I  could  see  him  bumping  his  head 
— could  see  Ruth,  too,  trying  to  quiet  and  soothe 
him.  I  would  imitate  her,  I  thought,  and  when  my 
little  baby  brother  screamed  and  kicked  and  wanted 
me  to  gather  flowers  instead  of  reading  under  the 
apple-tree,  as  I  was  given  to  doing,  I  would  put  up 
my  books  and  go  with  him  to  the  brook  in  the 
meadow  where  the  little  fishes  glided  in  and  out 
from  their  hiding-places  and  where  the  buttercups 
and  daisies  grew  on  the  side  of  the  mossy  bank.  I 
would  be  more  like  my  older  sister,  who  had  borne 
with  my  childish  freaks,  who  always  gave  me  the 
fairest  apple  and  the  largest  piece  of  cake,  and  who 
might  have  stood  for  Ruth  herself. 

The  story  was  having  a  good  effect  upon  me, 
when  suddenly  I  came  upon  a  little  note  appended 
by  the  author,  and  which  said  the  whole  was  a  fic- 
tion ;  that  no  such  person  as  Ruth  Lee  had  ever 
lived,  and  I  had  been  reading  what  was  not  true. 


238 


INTRODUCTORY. 


I  did  not  know  then  that  but  few  of  the  Sunday- 
school  books  are  literally  true,  and  I  was  terribly 
disappointed.  I  felt  that  in  losing  Ruth  I  had  lost 
a  real  friend,  and,  leaning  my  head  against  the  tree, 
I  cried  for  a  few  moments,  thinking  to  myself,  that 
when  I  was  older  I  would  write  a  book  for  children, 
which  should  every  word  be  true.  I  am  older  now 
— much  older  than  I  was  then  ;  that  Sunday  after- 
noon lies  far  back  in  the  past  ;  the  sister,  who 
might  have  been  Ruth,  is  dead,  and  her  grave  is 
under  a  little  pine,  wThich  whispers  softly  to  the 
wind,  of  the  gentle  sleeper  below.  There  are  more 
graves  than  hers  near  to  the  pine.  The  household 
is  broken  up,  and  children  of  another  name  than 
mine  read  under  the  old  apple-tree  in  the  orchard, 
or  search  for  violets  and  buttercups  down  by  the 
meadow  brook.  I  have  learned  to  know  that  stories 
of  fictitious  people,  if  true  to  life  and  written  with 
an  earnest  purpose  to  do  good,  may  oftentimes  be 
as  beneficial  as  stories  of  real  people  ;  but  I  have 
through  all  adhered  to  my  resolution,  that  my  first 
story  for  children  should  be  true  ;  and  so  this  bright 
May  morning,  when  the  sky  is  beautifully  blue,  and 
the  grass  in  the  garden  is  green  and  fresh  with 
yesterday's  rain,  I  begin  this  story  of  the  Font, 
which  shall  in  every  particular  be  true. 


THE  CHURCH. 


239 


CHAPTER  II. 

SOMETHING  ABOUT  THE  CHURCH,  AND  THE  CHILDREN 
WHO  BOUGHT  THE  FONT. 

MUST  tell  you  first  about  the  Church 
where  the  children  who  bought  the  Font 
went  to  Sunday-School.  St.  Luke's  we 
call  it,  and  it  stands  on  the  corner  where 
two  streets  cross  each  other,  in  a  little  village  which 
we  will  call  Carrollton.  That  is  not  its  real  name, 
you  know,  but  I  will  call  it  that,  and  then  go  on  to 
tell  you  how  the  church  is  built  of  stone,  with  a 
spire  from  which  the  paint  has  been  worn  off  by 
time,  and  the  rains  which  beat  against  it  from  the 
west.  The  window,  too,  on  that  side,  has  been 
broken  by  the  wind,  and  boards  are  nailed  across 
the  top  where  the  stained  glass  used  to  be.  But  the 
window  will  be  mended  in  time  ;  the  old  spire  will  be 
repainted  ;  the  ivy  at  the  corner  will  reach  higher  and 
higher,  until  the  tendrils  will  cling  perhaps  to  the 
very  roof  ;  the  fence  will  be  built  around  that  plot  of 
grass,  which  looks  so  fresh  this  morning  ;  and  then 


240 


THE  CHURCH. 


the  church  will  be  as  nice  and  neat  as  it  was  the  day 
it  was  completed  and  consecrated  to  God.  It  is 
very  pretty  now  inside,  and  the  fine-toned  organ  in 
the  gallery  makes  sweet  music  on  a  Sunday  when 
they  chant  the  "  Gloria  in  Excelsis "  and  sing 
"  Peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men."  That  organ 
has  played  the  Christmas  songs  which  tell  of  a 
Saviour  born,  and  the  joyful  Easter  carols,  which 
proclaim  a  Saviour  risen.  It  has  pealed  a  merry 
strain  as  bridal  parties  went  up  the  aisle  to  the 
altar  bedecked  with  flowers,  and  then  its  notes  have 
been  sad, — oh,  so  sad  ! — as  strong  men  carried 
coffins  up  the  aisle  and  laid  them  on  the  table. 
Two  of  them  little  coffins,  with  a  dead  boy  in  each, 
— boys  who  once  came  to  the  Sunday  school,  but  who 
will  never  come  again,  or  join  their  voices  in  the 
hymns  the  children  sing  and  the  prayers  they  say. 

To  the  left  of  the  chancel,  looking  toward  the 
organ,  is  a  little  enclosure,  or  room  where  the 
singers  used  to  sit,  but  which  is  now  used  for  the 
infant  class  ; — the  nursery  which  feeds  the  larger 
Sunday  school.  It  is  nearly  seven  years  since  the 
class  was  first  organized,  and,  during  that  time, 
there  have  been  in  it  one  hundred  different  children. 
Three  of  these  are  dead, — three  little  boys, — and 
they  lie  up  in  the  quiet  graveyard  where  the  white 


THE  CHURCH. 


241 


stones  show  so  prettily  through  the  dark  ever- 
greens. Berkie  was  the  first  to  die, — blue-eyed, 
pale-faced  Berkie,  who  used  to  sit  so  quietly  all 
through  the  Sunday  school,  with  an  earnest  expres- 
sion on  his  thoughtful  face  and  in  his  great  blue 
eyes,  as  if  he  were  already  looking  away  from  this 
world  into  the  one  where  he  was  going  so  soon. 
There  is  a  picture  on  the  wall  before  me  of  Berkie, 
with  many  other  members  of  his  class,  and  I  never 
look  at  it  without  a  sigh,  as  I  recall  the  dear  little 
boy  who  used  to  run  so  gladly  to  meet  me,  and 
listen  so  attentively  to  the  stories  I  told  him  of 
Jesus  ;  and  then  I  think  of  that  innumerable  host  of 
white-robed  children 

 "  whose  little  feet, 

Pacing  life's  dark  journey  through, 

Have  safely  reached  the  heavenly  seat 
They  had  ever  kept  in  view." 

And  I  know  Berkie  is  there  with  them,  and  I  can- 
not wish  him  back,  though  his  going  from  us  made 
a  sad  vacancy  in  our  little  school,  and  left  his 
parents'  hearts  so  desolate. 

Children  cannot  be  sorry  long,  neither  is  it  right 
they  should  ;  and  so  the  members  of  Berkie's  class, 
although  they  did  not  forget  him,  soon  began  to 
11 


242 


THE  CHURCH. 


wear  their  cheerful  faces  again,  and  look  forward 
to  the  Christmas  festival,  when  the  church  was 
hung  with  garlands  of  green,  and  in  the  chancel 
was  set  up  the  young  pine-tree,  which,  away  in  the 
marsh  by  the  lake,  had  been  growing  year  by  year, 
and  gathering  strength  in  its  young  limbs  to  bear 
the  many  gifts  hung  upon  it  by  parents,  and  teachers, 
and  friends,  when,  on  Christmas-eve,  they  came 
together  to  keep  the  birthnight  of  the  child  born  in 
Bethlehem's  manger  more  than  eighteen  hundred 
years  ago.  Children  are  always  happy  on  such 
occasions,  and  it  seems  to  me  that  the  children  of 
St.  Luke's,  in  Carrollton,  are  particularly  so,  judg- 
ing from  the  eager  joy  which  lights  up  their  faces, 
and  beams  in  their  eyes  when  they  hear  their  own 
names  called,  and  go  up  the  aisle  to  receive  the 
expected  gift.  I  wonder  every  church  in  the  land 
does  not  have  the  Christmas  trees,  and  thus  give  to 
the  children  pleasant  remembrances  of  that  day, 
without  which  we  had  indeed  been  shrouded  in  the 
deepest  gloom  !  True,  we  do  not  know  the  exact 
date  of  Christ's  birth,  but  we  know  near  enough, 
and  children  should  be  early  taught  that  Christmas 
has  a  far  deeper  meaning  than  merely  a  day  for 
festivity  and  mirth. 

As  far  as  possible  the  little  ones  of  St.  Luke's 


THE  CHURCH. 


243 


were  taught  to  understand  why  the  day  was  kept  ; 
and  that  rosy,  round-cheeked  Fred  did  understand 
was  proved  by  his  saying  to  his  mother,  "  I  know 
what  the  Christmas-tree  means.  It  is  Jesus'  birth- 
day party." 

Freddie  had  caught  the  spirit  of  the  thing,  if  not 
its  exact  meaning  ;  and  as  often  as  Christmas  comes 
round  he  will  remember  the  child  Jesus,  whose 
birth  the  church  then  commemorates. 

The  summer  following  Berkie's  death  the  infant 
Sunday  school  was  unusually  large,  and  every  seat 
was  full,  while  a  few  of  the  smaller  boys  sometimes 
sat  upon  the  floor.  There  were  some  visitors  in 
Carrollton  Parish  that  summer, — Susie  Ganson 
from  Jersey  City,  Maggie  Holmes  from  New  York, 
Lena  and  Ira  Stevens  from  Philadelphia,  and 
Sammie  Field  from  New  Orleans, — and  these  were 
all  in  the  class.  Then  there  was  another  Susie  and 
Maggie,  with  Louise  and  Maria,  and  Carrie,  and 
Fanny,  and  Mary,  and  Cora,  and  Ida,  and  Dell,  and 
Nellie,  and  Lizzie,  and  Lulu,  and  Jennie,  and 
Geenie,  and  two  Emmas.  Then  came  the  boys, — 
a  host  of  them  :  five  Willies,  four  Freddies,  three 
Franks,  three  Georges,  two  Walters,  two  Johns, 
with  Ezra,  and  Mason,  and  Eddie,  and  Charlie,  and 
Hugh,  and  Hunter,  and  Polie,  and  Newton,  and 


244 


THE  CHURCH. 


beautiful  little  Wallie, — the  youngest  of  them  all, — 
who  presented  the  Easter  offering  last  year,  and 
whom  we  love  so  much  because  of  his  mother,  who 
died  ere  he  could  remember  more  of  her  than  the 
cold,  white  face  which  he  patted  with  his  dimpled 
hands,  as  he  said  to  the  weeping  ones  around,  "That 
is  my  mamma."  Darling  Wallie  !  God  keep  him 
in  safety,  and  bring  him  at  last  to  the  home  where 
his  mother  is  waiting  for  him  ! 

To  say  that  these  fifty  children  were  always  quiet 
and  well-behaved  would  not  be  true  ;  for  some- 
times, when  the  day  was  warm,  and  they  were 
crowded  more  than  usual,  there  was  a  pushing 
among  the  boys,  a  knocking  together  of  boots  and 
elbows,  with  a  few  wry  faces  made,  and  a  few  sly 
pinches  given.  Then,  too,  they  sometimes  whis- 
pered during  prayers,  and  compared  marbles  and 
balls,  and  traded  Jack-knives ;  while  the  girls 
thought  sometimes  of  their  new  dresses,  and  the 
ribbons  on  their  hats.  Do  any  of  the  children  who 
read  this  story  play  in  Sunday  school,  and  whisper 
to  each  other  when  they  should  be  listening  to  what 
the  teacher  is  saying?  And  do  they  know  how  dis- 
pleasing this  is  to  God,  whose  eyes  are  upon  them 
everywhere,  and  who  would  have  them  reverence 
his  house  ?    I  am  sorry  tc  say  that  there  were  a  few 


THE  CHURCH. 


245 


children  in  the  class  who  were  very  irregular  in 
their  attendance.  The  most  trivial  thing  would 
keep  them  at  home.  The  day  was  too  hot  or  too 
cold, — or  their  new  clothes  were  not  done, — or  they 
went  out  into  the  country  to  see  their  grandmother, 
— or  they  wandered  off  to  some  other  Sunday 
school,  where  there  was  to  be  a  festival  or  celebra- 
tion, from  which  they  hoped  to  be  benefited.  For 
this  last  the  parents  are  especially  to  be  censured. 
Better  have  some  regular  place,  and  stay  there  ;  for 
as  a  rolling  stone  gathers  no  moss,  so  no  real  good 
can  come  from  going  to  different  schools,  and 
learning  sometimes  from  one  catechism,  and  some- 
times from  another,  and  sometimes  from  none  at  all. 

One  boy  there  is  at  St.  Luke's  who  deserves 
especial  notice  for  his  regular  attendance.  The 
day  is  very  cold  and  stormy  indeed  which  does  not 
find  him  there ;  and  neither  worn-out  shoes  nor 
threadbare  coat  avail  to  keep  him  at  home.  He 
does  not  always  have  his  lesson,  and  he  loses  more 
catechisms  than  I  can  tell  ;  but  he  is  always  there  ; 
and,  what  is  better  yet,  he  brings  other  children 
with  him.  Six,  in  all,  he  has  brought  to  the  Sunday 
school,  and  we  call  him  our  little  "recruiting  offi- 
cer." He  has  a  very  high-sounding  name, — "  Napo- 
leon Augustus," — but  we  all  know  him  as  "Polie." 


246 


THE  SEWING  SOCIETY. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE   CHILDREN'S   SEWING  SOCIETY. 

HERE  were  many  baptisms  that  summer, 
and  the  little  silver  bowl  was  so  often 
called  into  requisition,  that  the  people 
began  to  think  a  marble  Font  would  be 
a  most  appropriate  and  useful  ornament  for  the 
church  ;  and  who  more  appropriate  to  buy  it  than 
the  children?  So  the  teachers  set  themselves  at 
work  to  devise  the  best  means  by  which  it  could  be 
done.  And  now,  as  it  has  something  to  do  with 
the  Font,  I  must  tell  you  of  the  Children's  Sewing 
Society,  which  met  every  Saturday  afternoon  at  the 
different  houses  in  the  parish,  and  was  composed  of 
the  young  girls  of  St.  Luke's,  together  with  many 
who  came  from  the  other  denominations.  There 
were  Carries  and  Lilies,  and  Adas,  and  Jennies,  and 
Nellies  and  Ellas,  and  Marys,  and  Kitty,  and  Lenas, 
and  Ida,  and  Annies,  and  Fannys,  and  many  others, 
and  they  worked  at  first  upon  a  patchwork  quilt 


*  THE   SEWING  SOCIETY. 


247 


intended  for  Nashotah.  There  were  bits  of  calico 
of  every  quality  and  hue,  from  flaming  yellow  down 
to  sombre  brown  ;  and  the  blocks  were  put  together 
with  but  little  regularity  or  adaptation  of  one  color 
to  another.  But  could  the  student,  whom  it  will 
keep  warm  next  winter,  have  seen  the  group  of 
merry-hearted  girls  who  worked  upon  that  quilt, 
— some  with  thimbles  and  some  without  ;  some  with 
long  stitches  and  some  with  short, — and  could  he 
know  how  engaged  they  were  in  the  work,  and  how 
anxious  even  the  youngest  of  them  was  to  learn  to 
sew  for  Nashotah, — he  would  forgive  whatever 
there  is  unsightly  in  the  quilt,  and  hold  it  more 
precious  than  the  covering  of  kings'  couches.  A 
lady  in  the  parish,  who  was  deeply  interested  in  the 
children's  society,  offered  to  give  five  dollars  for 
the  quilt  when  it  was  done,  and  then  send  it  her- 
self to  Nashotah  ;  and  this  five  dollars  was  the 
nucleus  round  which  other  funds  were  to  be 
gathered  for  the  Font. 

At  last  a  fair  was  suggested,  and  then  the  little 
girls'  fingers  worked  faster  and  their  faces  grew 
brighter  as  they  talked  together  of  what  they  could 
make  or  do  for  the  fair.  It  was  the  one  absorbing 
topic  of  conversation,  and  the  society  increased, 
and  all  were  busy  with  something  which  they  in- 


248  TEE   SEWING  SOCIETY. 


tended  for  the  fair.  I  cannot  enumerate  all  the 
articles,  for  it  would  make  the  story  too  long  ;  and 
then  I  do  not  remember  them.  But  I  have  in  mind 
the  beautiful  bead  mats,  which  little  Susie  made ; 
and  the  elephant,  as  natural  as  the  real  ones  which 
sometimes  come  into  town,  with  their  fanciful 
blankets  on,  and  their  big  feet,  which  leave  so  large 
prints  in  the  sand.  There  was  a  little  air-castle 
made  of  straw,  and  designed  for  the  flies  to  light 
on  ;  and  every  time  I  lift  my  eyes  I  can  see  it 
hanging  over  my  head,  and  I  think  of  the  bright- 
eyed  Carrie  who  made  it,  and  who  was  so  much 
interested  in  the  fair,  even  though  she  did  not 
belong  to  St.  Luke's  Sunday  school.  There  were 
handsome  hair-receivers,  made  by  a  young  girl, 
from  New  York,  who  was  spending  the  summer  in 
Carrollton,  and  who  contributed  both  labor  and 
material.  Boys  tried  their  skill  in  making  mats  on 
corks,  and  harnesses  for  dogs  ;  and  all  through  the 
parish  the  enthusiasm  increased  until  the  fair  prom- 
ised to  be  a  great  success. 


TEE  INFANT  CLASS. 


249 


CHAPTER  IV. 

WHAT  WAS  DONE  IN  THE  INFANT  CLASS  FOR  THE  FAIR. 

HERE  were  two  teachers  in  the  infant 
school, — one  the  mother  of  little  Berkie 
and  the  other  Mrs.  Hoyt,  who  wrote  to 
a  friend  in  New  York,  telling  him  of  the 
fair,  and  asking  if  his  little  daughter  would  like  to 
send  a  few  toys  for  the  tables.  Three  days  passed, 
and  then  the  answer  came,  not  in  the  shape  of  toys, 
but  a  crisp  five-dollar  bill  from  little  "Susie  Street," 
another  five  from  "  little  Joe,"  and  two  from  "little 
Mamie."  This  was  the  answer ;  and  the  ladies, 
who  had  sometimes  felt  discouraged,  and  feared 
they  might  fail,  believed  that  God  was  blessing 
them  in  their  efforts,  and  with  earnest  prayers 
they  gave  the  fair  into  his  charge,  and  the  result 
proved  how  faithful  he  was  to  the  trust.  Not 
satisfied  with  what  his  children  had  done,  the  kind 
gentleman  from  New  York,  who  was  an  editor, 


250 


THE   INFANT  CLASS. 


interested  his  workmen  in  the  matter,  and  the  treas- 
urer was  one  day  surprised  with  twelve  dollars  and 
a  half,  contributed  by  the  printers  and  workmen  in 
the  press-room, — strangers,  the  most  of  them,  to  the 
ladies  of  St.  Luke's — and  the  gift  was  all  the  more 
acceptable  for  that,  while  many  thanks  and  bless- 
ings were  showered  upon  the  generous  donors.  In 
Massachusetts,  too,  where  the  treasurer's  childhood 
was  passed,  a  few  kind  friends  interested  themselves 
in  the  Children's  Fair,  and  eleven  dollars  more  was 
the  result.  And  so  the  fund  kept  growing,  as  one 
friendly  hand  after  another  was  stretched  out  to 
help,  and  the  Font  seemed  almost  a  certainty  with- 
out the  fair. 

It  was  a  plan  of  the  teachers  that  the  smaller  chil- 
dren should  assist,  and,  either  by  saving  or  earning, 
contribute  their  mites.  And  so  each  Sunday  the 
pennies  were  brought,  while  during  the  week  the 
little  ones  were  busy  as  bees  in  devising  ways  and 
means  to  save  or  earn  for  the  fair.  I  wish  you  could 
have  seen  the  boys  who  lived  in  the  brick  house  just 
across  the  street  from  St.  Luke's.  They  were  as 
fond  of  play  as  boys  usually  are  ;  but  they  gave  it 
up  for  a  while,  and  the  croquet  mallets  rested 
quietly  in  the  grass,  and  the  old  house-dog  had  a 
worried,  anxious  look  in  his  eyes,  as  if  he  wondered 


THE   INFANT  CLASS. 


251 


what  had  come  over  his  young  masters,  and  why, 
instead  of  running  up  and  down  the  walk  with  him, 
they  stayed  so  long  out  in  the  back  yard,  or  climbed 
the  trees  where  he  could  not  reach  them.  They 
were  picking  plums,  and  piling  up  wood,  and  sell- 
ing grapes ;  and,  as  the  result  of  their  work,  they 
brought  to  the  Sunday  school  over  a  dollar  and  a 
half.  And  while  they  were  thus  busy,  two  little 
girls,  Susie  and  Maria,  were  picking  apples,  their 
chubby  faces  getting  very  red  and  their  white 
aprons  somewhat  stained  with  the  juicy  fruit. 
Down  on  Main  street  there  was  a  soda-fountain, 
and  the  delicious,  creamy  liquid  was  very  tempting, 
on  a  hot  day,  to  the  children  who  had  the  pennies 
to  spare,  and  in  many  cases  the  temptation  was  too 
strong  to  be  resisted  ;  but  a  few  denied  themselves, 
and  brought  the  fruits  of  their  self-denial  to  their 
teacher,  just  as  Willie  Sutherland  brought  the 
pennies  which  he  had  saved  by  going  without  the 
chewing-gum  which  boys  usually  like  so  much. 
To  us  these  self-denials  may  look  very  small,  but 
God  knew  just  how  hard  the  struggle  was  in  each 
little  heart,  and  he  surely  commended  the  offerings 
as  he  did  the  widow's  mite,  and  blessed  the  chil- 
dren, too,  who  made  them.    Fourteen  dollars  and 


252 


THE  INFANT  CLASS. 


thirty-three  cents  was  the  sum  total  which  the  chil- 
dren saved  in  seven  weeks ;  and  never  were  pennies 
more  acceptable  than  these,  which  had  cost  the 
children  quite  as  hard  a  struggle  as  many  a  greater 
self-denial  costs  those  of  maturer  years. 


THE  DAT   OF   THE  FAIR. 


253 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  DAY  OF  THE  FAIR. 

H,  how  it  rained  and  rained  for  days  and 
days  before  the  one  appointed  for  the 
fair,  and  how  many  anxious  eyes  were 
turned  up  towards  the  clouds  which 
looked  so  heavy  and  gray  and  pitiless,  as  if  they 
never  intended  to  stop  raining  again  !  It  was  hard 
to  believe  that  behind  the  dark  mass  the  sun  was 
still  shining,  and  the  children  watched  in  vain  for 
the  "silver  lining "  which  is  said  to  invest  every 
cloud.  But  it  appeared  at  last  on  the  very  day  of 
the  fair,  and  patches  of  blue  sky  showed  here  and 
there  in  the  heavens,  and  before  noon  the  October 
sun  was  drying  the  walks  and  the  wet  grass,  and 
brightening  up  the  little  faces  which  for  days  had 
been  overcast  with  gloom.  The  fair  was  to  be  held 
at  a  private  house,  and  I  wish  you  could  have  seen 
the  multitude  of  pretty  things  which  came  pouring 
in,  until  the  Brown  Cottage  looked  like  one  great 


254 


THE  DAT   OF   THE  FAIR. 


bazaar  of  toys  and  fancy  articles.  There  were 
cushions  of  pink  and  cushions  of  blue,  and  pen- 
wipers and  book-racks,  and  a  beautiful  whirling 
butterfly  which  Lulu  bought  on  Broadway,  and 
needle-books  and  spool-cases,  and  tidies  of  various 
devices  and  colors,  with  mittens  and  gloves,  and 
fanciful  lines  with  tinkling  bells  attached,  and  I 
know  a  little  boy,  among  the  Massachusetts  hills, 
who  to-day  drives  his  miniature  horses,  of  which  he 
has  forty  or  more,  with  a  pair  of  those  very  lines. 
Then  there  were  toys  of  every  description  sent  from 
New  York  by  Susie  Ganson's  mother,  and  spread 
out  upon  the  tables  in  the  upper  room,  whose  glass 
door  looked  into  the  garden.  There  were  jumping- 
jacks,  which  turned  the  boys  wild,  and  churns, 
which  made  the  little  girls  scream  with  delight. 
There  were  washbowls  and  tubs,  tin-kitchens  and 
rolling-pins,  and  bars  to  dry  the  dolly's  clothes  on, 
and  chairs,  and  tables,  and  dishes,  with  balls  and 
canes,  and  old  Santa  Claus  himself  bearing  his 
Christmas-tree  with  the  gifts  to  put  upon  it.  There 
was  a  negro,  too,  with  his  woolly  head  and  calico 
frock,  looking  so  life-like  and  real  that  some  of  the 
smaller  children  drew  back  from  him  in  terror, 
fancying  he  was  alive. 

Downstairs,  in  the  bay  window,  and  on  a  table 


THE   DAT   OF    THE   FAIR.  255 


where  it  could  be  distinctly  seen,  was  the  "  Beauty 
of  the  Fair," — a  little  stained  bedstead,  which  an 
ingenious  gentleman  had  whittled  out  with  his  pen- 
knife. It  was  a  most  perfect  thing,  with  castors 
and  mattress  tufted  with  pink,  with  ruffled  sheets 
and  pillow-cases,  the  ruffles  all  nicely  fluted  and 
showing  well  against  the  covering  of  white 
Marseilles.  Upon  it  lay  a  handsome  doll,  in  her 
muslin  dress  and  scarlet  cloak,  ready  for  the  opera. 
The  two  were  to  go  together,  and  many  a  little  girl 
hoped  she  might  be  made  the  happy  possessor  of  so 
beautiful  a  gift.  In  a  corner  of  the  parlor,  the 
books  which  a  kind  New  York  publisher  had  given, 
were  arranged,  together  with  the  Fate  Eggs,  which 
looked  so  pretty,  suspended  from  the  branch  of 
evergreen  made  to  resemble  a  tree.  The  books  and 
the  eggs  were  to  be  Jennie's  charge, — dear  little 
Jennie,  with  the  pale,  sweet  face,  whom  everybody 
loves  and  pities  so  much, — for  Jennie  is  lame  ;  and 
when  the  other  children  of  her  age  are  at  their  merry 
play,  she  can  only  lean  upon  her  crutches  and 
watch  the  sport  in  which  she  can  take  no  part. 
Near  Jennie's  corner  the  candy  and  flower  tables 
stood,  and  Annie  and  Carrie  were  to  preside  there, 
and  send  out  little  peddlers  with  baskets  of  candy 
and  bouquets  to  sell. 


256 


THE  DAT   OF   THE  FAIR. 


I  must  not  forget  to  tell  you  of  the  famous  fish 
pond,  as  it  was  something  new  in  Carrollton,  and 
proved  a  great  success.  A  cornor  of  the  room  was 
divided  off  with  a  heavy  curtain,  on  which  the 
printed  words, 

FISH  POND 
were  pinned,  while  standing  near  were  fishing  rods 
and  lines,  with  hooks  made  out  of  wire.  With 
these  the  children  were  to  fish,  throwing  the  lines 
over  the  curtain  and  into  a  box  filled  with  toys  of 
various  kinds,  which  a  boy  fastened  upon  the  hooks 
as  fast  as  they  came  over. 

At  last  everything  was  ready.  The  drapery  had 
been  taken  from  the  windows  and  the  pictures  from 
the  walls  ;  the  furniture  had  been  removed  from  the 
rooms,  which  looked  bare  and  empty  enough,  I 
assure  you.  There  were  curtains  before  the  doors 
of  the  library  where  the  tableaux  were  to  be,  and  on 
the  piano  stood  the  big  shoe  where  Louise  was  to  sit 
and  sell  her  three  dozen  dolls.  There  were  loaves 
and  loaves  of  cake  in  the  kitchen,  which  served  as 
the  restaurant,  and  gallons  of  ice-cream  in  the 
freezers.  And  all  over  the  town  the  excited  chil- 
dren were  getting  ready,  and  watching  for  the  sun 
to  set  and  the  clock  to  point  the  hour  when  it  was 
time  for  them  to  start. 


THE  NIGHT    OF   THE  FAIR. 


257 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  NIGHT  OF  THE  FAIR. 

T  seemed  a  very  inhospitable  thing  to 
close  the  doors  of  one's  house,  and  let  in 
only  those  who  paid  for  the  admittance  ; 
but  it  had  been  decided  that  such  should 
be  the  rule,  and  so  at  precisely  six  o'clock  every 
door  was  locked,  and  the  boys  who  were  to  tend 
them  waited  with  an  air  of  great  importance  for  the 
ring  which  was  to  herald  the  first  arrival,  and  put 
the  first  dime  in  their  box.  They  had  not  long  to 
wait,  for  the  children  were  prompt  to  time,  and 
came  in  groups  of  half-dozens,  and  dozens,  and 
scores,  until  the  boys  who  kept  the  doors  became 
confused  and  bewildered,  and  gladly  gave  up 
their  post  to  some  one  who  was  older,  and  could 
better  stem  the  tide  of  human  beings  pouring  in 
so  fast,  and  filling  the  lower  rooms  till -there  was 
hardly  a  place  -to  stand.  It  was  a  great  jam, — the 
greatest  which  had  ever  been  in  town.    Four  hun- 


258 


THE  NIGHT    OF    THE  FAIR, 


dred  people  were  present,  and,  in  an  inconceivably 
short  space  of  time,  the  tables  upstairs  were  cleared, 
and  then  the  crowd  came  surging  down  to  the 
parlors,  and  gathered  round  the  candy-table,  which 
was  emptied  in  a  few  moments, — for  the  little  ped- 
dlers, Lily  and  Kitty  and  Jennie  and  Lena  and  Ada 
and  Emma  and  Nellie,  did  their  part  well,  and  no 
one  could  refuse  to  buy  when  asked  by  so  beautiful 
little  girls.  There  were  pictures,  too,  contributed 
by  one  of  our  finest  artists,  and  these  sold  rapidly, 
until  only  two  were  left, — one  of  Horace  Greeley, 
and  another  of  some  scene  in  Germany. 

Then  came  the  tableaux.  The  first,  called  the 
"  Red,  White,  and  Blue,"  was  a  group  of  three  little 
girls, — Lizzie,  Susie,  and  Lulu, — each  wearing  a 
white  dress,  and  a  sash  of  the  color  she  represented, 
ornamented  with  stars.  Around  them  were  gath- 
ered the  children, — three  of  whom  sang  the  popular 
air,  "Red,  White,  and  Blue,"  while  all  joined  in  the 
chorus, — the  boys'  voices  rising  loud  and  shrill  with 
their  "Three  cheers  for  the  Red,  White,  and  Blue  !" 

I  wish  you  could  have  seen  the  next  tableau, 
called  the  "  Bridal  of  Tom  Thumb,"  where  Maria, 
in  her  long  tarletan  dress  and  flowing  veil,  with  the 
orange  blossoms  in  her  hair,  stood  for  Lavinia 
Warren :  and  little   Maggie  Holmes,  only  three 


THE  NIGHT    OF    THE   FAIR.  259 


years  old,  represented  Minnie, — her  soft,  blue  eyes 
looking  shyly  out  from  under  their  long  lashes  at 
the  people,  who  set  up  loud  shouts  of  laughter  at 
the  sight  of  the  comical-looking  party.  There  was 
Wallie,  as  Tom  Thumb,  in  his  swallow-tailed  coat, 
with  his  white  vest  and  white  cravat,  just  putting 
the  ring  on  Maria's  finger  ;  while  beside  him  was 
Little  Josey  Allen,  similarly  attired,  and  making  the 
drollest  figure  you  ever  saw,  as,  with  his  thumb  in 
his  white  vest,  he  stood  erect  and  still, — making  a 
better  Commodore  than  the  Commodore  himself, — 
while  Willie  Campbell,  in  surplice  made  of  a  sheet, 
was  supposed  to  perform  the  ceremony.  As  you 
may  imagine,  Maria  and  Maggie,  Wallie  and  Josey, 
were  the  stars  of  the  evening ;  bnt  the  poor  little 
girls,  in  their  long,  trailing  dresses,  were  almost  as 
helpless  as  the  ladies  of  China  are  with  their  little 
feet ;  and  they  had  to  be  carried  around  in  gentle- 
men's arms,  and  shown  to  the  people  who  had  been 
unable  to  see  them  distinctly. 

"  Santa  Claus"  came  next ;  and  Mason,  with  his 
white  hair,  and  beard,  and  furs,  made  a  capital  St. 
Nick,  and  elicited  peals  of  laughter  as  he  drove  in 
his  eight  reindeer,  each  with  pasteboard  horns  tied 
on  his  head,  and  his  name  pinned  on  his  back  in 
large  capitals.    There  were  Dasher  and  Dancer, 


260 


THE  NIGHT    OF   THE  FAIR. 


and  Pbancer  and  Vixen.  There  were  Comet  and 
Cupid,  and  Dundee,  and  Blitzen  ;  and  the  little 
bells  about  their  necks  made  a  soft,  tinkling  sound, 
as  they  shook  their  horned  heads,  and  pranced  in 
imitation  of  deer,  while  waiting  for  their  master  to 
fill  the  sleeping  children's  stockings  with  toys. 
Then,  with  a  bound,  St.  Nick  sprang  into  his  sleigh, 
and  the  little  cortege  passed  on  through  the  parlor 
and  hall  and  sitting-room  and  dining-room,  and  so 
out  of  sight. 

There  was  a  post-office,  too,  and  the  mail  was 
drawn  by  eight  little.boys,  with  red  plumes  on  their 
heads,  and  driven  again  by  Mason,  who  showed 
great  skill  in  the  management  of  his  horses  and 
reindeer.  Close  beside  the  boys  ran  little  Sammie 
Field,  with  the  words  "  This-is-a-Colt,"  pinned  on 
his  back ;  and  I  assure  you  that  kicking  colt 
attracted  quite  as  much  attention  as  the  eight  plumed 
horses  did.  The  letters,  which  sold  for  five  and  ten 
cents  each,  made  a  great  deal  of  fun,  and  added  to 
the  general  hilarity  of  the  evening. 

You  should  have  seen  Ella,  dressed  as  an  old 
woman,  and  trying  to  thread  the  point  of  her  needle 
by  a  tallow  candle  of  enormous  length,  and  which 
was  called  "  The  Light  of  other  Days."  Louise,  too, 
in  broad  frilled  cap  and  glasses,  with  her  dollies  all 


THE  NIGHT    OF   THE  FAIR.  261 


over  her,  represented  the  "  Old  Woman  in  the 
Shoe,"  and  attracted  crowds  around  her,  until  every 
doll  was  sold,  and  the  great  shoe  was  nearly  empty. 
The  Fish  Pond  was  very  popular,  and  was  drained 
in  half  an  hour, — the  boys  and  girls  going  nearly 
crazy  over  it,  and  contending  with  each  other  for  a 
chance  to  fish,  at  five  cents  a  bite.  It  proved  a  great 
success,  as  did  everything  pertaining  to  the  fair 
which  closed  with  "  Johnny  Schmoker,"  sung  and 
acted  by  the  children,  and  a  tableau  arranged  by  the 
young  ladies. 

It  was  rather  late  when  at  last  the  fair  was  over, 
and  the  children  went  home  very  tired,  and  a  few 
of  them  a  little  cross,  it  may  be,  though  some  were 
very  happy,  as  was  proved  by  little  black-eyed 
Johnny,  who  had  come  up  from  Rochester,  and 
who,  after  the  fair  was  over,  and  he  was  going  to 
bed,  asked  his  mother  if  she  did  not  think  that 
children  were  sometimes  as  happy  in  this  world  as 
they  would  be  in  heaven  ;  "  Because,  mother,"  said 
he,  "  I  know  I  was  as  happy  to-night  at  the  fair  as  I 
shall  ever  be  in  heaven." 

When  the  ladies,  who  had  worked  so  hard  and 
been  sometimes  so  disheartened,  heard  of  that,  they 
felt  that  the  fair  had  paid,  if  only  in  making  one 
child  so  happy.    That  it  paid,  too,  in  a  more  tangible 


262 


THE   NIGHT    OF    THE  FAIR. 


form,  was  shown  when  the  receipts  were  footed  up, 
and  found  to  amount  to  over  two  hundred  and 
sixty  dollars.  You  may  be  sure  there  was  great  re- 
joicing the  next  day  when  it  was  known  that  we  had 
enough  to  get  the  Font,  together  with  the  bishop's 
and  rector's  chairs,  which  we  so  much  needed. 
Means  were  immediately  taken  to  have  them  in 
readiness  by  Christmas,  so  that  the  children  could 
then  present  them  to  the  church. 


POOR   LITTLE  HUNTER. 


263 


CHAPTER  VII. 

POOR  LITTLE  HUNTER 

HE  fair  was  held  on  the  third  of  October, 
and  of  all  the  boys  there,  none  was 
happier,  or  enjoyed  it  more,  than  little 
Hunter  Buckley,  who  never  dreamed 
that  this  was  the  last  festivity  in  which  he  would 
ever  join  with  his  comrades, — that  before  the  winter 
snows  were  falling,  or  the  Font  for  which  he  had 
worked  was  set  up  in  the  church,  he  would  be 
buried  away  from  sight  and  sound, — where  the 
songs  of  the  children  could  not  reach  him,  nor  the 
sobs  of  his  poor  mother,  who  mourned  so  bitterly 
for  her  little  darling  boy.  His  death  was  very 
sudden.  In  the  morning  he  was  perfectly  well,  and 
his  mother  little  thought,  when,  after  breakfast,  he 
bade  her  good-by,  and  started  for  the  village,  that 
never  again  would  his  feet  come  down  the  grassy 
lane,  or  his  loved  voice  sound  in  her  ears  ;  that 
when  he  came  back  to  her  it  would  be  as  the  dead 


264  POOR   LITTLE  HUNTER. 


come  back, — lifeless  and  still.  Yet  so  it  was,  for 
in  a  few  hours  the  news  ran  through  the  village  that 
Hunter  Buckley  was  dead, — smothered  in  the  wheat 
where  he  was  playing ;  and  which  was  running 
through  a  large  tunnel  into  a  boat  loading  at  the 
wharf.  It  was  a  careless  thing  to  play  there;  but 
he  had  done  it  before,  and  thought  of  no  danger 
now,  until  the  suction  became  so  great  that  it  was 
impossible  to  escape,  and  he  was  drawn  into  that 
whirlpool  of  grain. 

I  saw  him  the  next  day,  looking,  except  that  he 
was  paler,  exactly  as  he  had  the  Sunday  before, 
when  he  sat  in  Sunday  school,  and  listened  to  the 
lessons  his  teacher  taught. 

The  next  day  was  the  funeral  ;  and  six  young 
boys  carried  his  coffin  up  the  aisle  and  laid  it  on  the 
table  ;  while,  in  silence  and  awe,  his  companions 
listened  to  the  words  the  clergyman  spoke, — words 
of  admonition  to  them, — words  of  commendation  of 
the  dead, — and  words  of  comfort  for  the  weeping 
fsiends,  upon  whom  so  heavy  a  sorrow  had  fallen. 
Those  were  sad  notes  which  the  organ  played  then, 
and  more  than  one  voice  trembled  as  it  joined  in 
the  hymn  sung  over  the  dead  boy,  and  then  they 
carried  him  out  to  the  long,  black  hearse,  which 


POOR    LITTLE  HUNTER 


265 


bore  him  to  the  graveyard  where  Berkie  had  gone 
before  him. 

Since  that  time  they  have  made  another  grave, 
and  the  boys  of  the1  Sunday  school  have  followed 
Walter  Hewitt  there.  He  died  when  the  winter 
snows  were  heaped  upon  the  ground,  and  now  lies 
in  the  same  yard  where  Hunter  and  Berkie  are, — 
three  little  boys,  who  will  sleep  there  in  their  coffins 
until  the  resurrection  morn,  when  Jesus  comes  to 
claim  his  own  and  take  them  to  himself. 
1% 


266 


CHRISTMAS,  1867. 


CHAPTER  VITI. 

CHRISTMAS,  1867. 

HERE  was  no  rector  in  the  parish  that 
winter  ;  but  the  people  kept  up  lay- 
services  and  the  Sunday  school,  and 
were  resolved  that  the  children  should 
not  go  without  the  usual  festival.  So  the  ever- 
greens were  brought  from  the  lake,  with  a  beautiful 
pine-tree,  and  a  few  of  the  ladies  worked  industri- 
ously, day  after  day,  fashioning  wreaths  and  crosses 
and  anchors,  which  were  hung  upon  the  walls  and 
festooned  about  the  chancel,  where  the  tree  was 
placed,  its  long  branches  reaching  out  in  every 
direction,  as  if  asking  for  the  many  hundred  gifts 
which  came  pouring  in  so  fast.  There  were  dolls 
and  tops,  and  bows  and  arrows,  and  Christmas 
cakes  all  sugared  over  the  top,  and  stamped  with 
the  owner's  name.  There  were  books  and  cards, 
and  marbles  and  balls,  and  a  beautiful  slipper-case, 
which  Lulu  gave  to  her  teacher.     There  were 


CHRISTMAS,  1867, 


267 


bcxes  with  candy  and  boxes  without,  and  horses 
and  cows,  and  monkeys  in  red,  and  tea-kettles  and 
pails,  and  golden  fishes,  which  gleamed  so  brightly 
among  the  dark-green  leaves  of  the  tree.  There 
wTas  a  white  ermine  muff,  and  a  picture  called 
the  "  Christmas  Bell,"  bought  for  Berkie's  mother 
by  her  class  ;  while,  swinging  in  his  pretty  cage, 
was  a  beautiful  Canary,  who,  when  the  gas  was 
lighted  and  he  had  recovered  a  little  from  his  fright 
at  being  brought  from  the  depot  with  a  shawl  over 
his  cage, .  began  to  look  about  him,  and  wink  his 
bright  eyes  at  the  children.  Then,  as  he  began  to 
feel  more  at  home  and  to  get  an  inkling  of  what  it 
all  meant,  he  opened  his  mouth  and  poured  forth 
one  sweet  song  after  another  until  it  seemed  as  if 
his  little  throat  would  burst. 

But  the  handsomest  gift  of  all  was  the  font, 
which  had  Come  the  night  before  and  been  firmly 
fixed  in  its  place  just  outside  the  chancel.  It  was 
of  Italian  marble,  very  graceful  in  its  proportions, 
and  on  the  top,  in  black  letters,  were  the  words 
"  Presented  by  the  children  of  St.  Luke's  Sunday 
School,  Christmas,  1867,"  followed  by  "  Suffer  the 
little  children  to  come  unto  me,  and  forbid  them 
not.,,  This  was,  of  course,  the  center  of  attraction, 
and   both  the  children   and  the  grown  people 


268 


CHRISTMAS,  1867. 


gathered  around  it,  commenting  on  its  beauty,  and 
wondering  who  would  be  the  first  child  bap- 
tized from  it.  The  new  chairs,  too,  were  there, 
made  of  solid  oak,  and  upholstered  with  crimson, 
so  that  the  church  looked  very  handsome  with  its 
new  furniture,  and  the  Christmas-tree,  with  the 
tapers  shining  from  its  branches  and  lighting  up 
the  hundreds  of  pretty  things  upon  it. 

I  have  told  you  before  that  we  had  no  clergy- 
man ;  but  our  good  doctor  read  a  part  of  the  evening 
service,  and  then  made  a  few  remarks  to  the  chil- 
dren, who,  I  am  afraid,  did  not  listen  very  closely, 
they  were  so  intent  upon  the  tree  and  what  they 
would  probably  get  from  it.  Our  organist  had 
taken  great  pains  to  drill  the  children  in  their  carols, 
and  when  they  sang  of  "The  Wonderful  Night," 
we  could  almost  see  the 

"  Angels  and  shining  immortals 
Which,  crowding  the  ebony  portals. 
Fling  out  their  banners  of  light/' 

It  is  a  splendid  carol,  and  if  you  do  not  already 
know  it,  I  advise  you  to  get  the  "  New  Service 
Book  "  and  learn  it  before  another  Christmas-eve. 

The  distribution  of  gifts  commenced  at  last,  and 
never  were  children  happier  than  those  who,  as 
their  names  were  called,  went  up  one  after  another 


CHRISTMAS,  1867. 


269 


to  the  chancel,  and  came  back  with  loaded  hands, 
and  hearts  throbbing  with  a  keener,  purer  delight 
than  they  will  ever  know  after  the  years  of  child- 
hood are  past,  and  they  have  grown  to  be  women 
and  men.  The  tree  was  stripped  at  last,  and  all 
over  the  church  there  was  the  hum  of  eager,  excited 
voices,  mingled  occasionally  with  a  blast  from  a 
whistle  or  horn  blown  by  some  boy  who  could  not 
wait  till  he  reached  home  before  testing  his  musical 
instrument.  Then  there  came  a  hush,  as  the  closing 
prayer  was  said,  and  the  grand  old  chant  was  sung 
"  Glory  to  God  on  high."  How  the  music  rolled 
through  the  church  as  the  organ  pealed  its  loudest 
strains,  and  the  boys  and  girls  joined  in  the  song, 
while  the  little  bird,  frantic  by  this  time  with  all  it 
had  seen  and  heard,  fairly  shook  its  golden  sides  as 
it  trilled  its  clear,  shrill  notes,  and  mingled  its  own 
loud  voice  in  the  last  Christmas  song  ! 

Half  an  hour  later,  and  the  church  was  silent 
and  empty,  the  organ  was  hushed,  the  echo  of  the 
singing  had  died  away,  the  tree  was  shorn  of  its 
decorations,  the  children  were  all  at  home,  sleeping 
many  of  them,  and  dreaming,  perhaps,  of  that  boy- 
baby  whose  birth  the  angels  sang,  whom  wise  men 
came  to  worship,  and  over  whose  cradle  hovered 
the  shadow  of  the  cross.    But  with  the  early  dawn 


270 


CHRISTMAS,  1867. 


I  know  they  will  awake,  looking  at  their  treasures 
and  living  over  again  the  joy  of  the  preceding 
night. 

Blessed  childhood,  when  guarded  and  hedged 
around  with  the  influences  which  religion  brings  ! 
Which  of  us  does  not  recall  with  a  pang  of  regret 
those  halcyon  days  when  the  summer  was  so  long 
and  bright  because  of  the  flowers  and  birds,  and  the 
autumn  so  fair  and  sweet  because  of  the  ripening 
fruits  and  nuts,  and  the  winter  so  glorious  because 
of  the  beautiful  snow  ?  And  who  does  not  love  the 
children  and  wish  to  make  them  happy  ?  I  most 
certainly  do  ;  and  as,  while  writing  this  story  of 
The  Font,  the  actors  in  the  fair  have  one  by  one 
passed  in  review  before  me,  I  have  kissed  and 
blessed  them  all,  and  asked  that  God  would  keep 
them  to  a  green  old  age,  when,  perhaps,  they  may 
read,  with  strange,  curious  feelings,  what  I  have 
written  of  them. 

And  to  the  children  I  have  never  seen,  but  who 
may  read  this  story,  I  would  say,  I  love  you,  too  ; — 
love  you  because  you  are  children  and  parts  of 
God's  great  family,  and  I  pray  him  that  you  may 
one  day  meet  in  the  better  world  with  every  one  of 
those  who  helped  to  buy  the  Font  and  her  who 
wrote  its  story. 


ADAM  FLOYD. 


CHAPTER  I. 

ADAM. 

T  was  the  warmest  day  of  the  season,  and 
from  the  moment  when  the  first  robin 
chirped  in  the  maple  tree  growing  by 
the  door,  to  the  time  when  the  shadows 
stretching  eastward  indicated  that  the  sultry  after- 
noon was  drawing  to  a  close,  Adam  Floyd  had  been 
busy.  Indeed,  he  could  not  remember  a  day  when 
he  had  worked  so  continuously  and  so  hard,  neither 
could  he  recall  a  time  when  he  had  been  so  per- 
fectly happy,  except  upon  one  starlight  night  when 
last  winter's  snow  was  piled  upon  the  ground.  The 
events  of  that  night  had  seemed  to  him  then  like  a 
dream,  and  they  were  scarcely  more  real  now,  when 

[271] 


272 


ADAM. 


pausing  occasionally  in  his  work  and  leaning  his 
head  upon  his  broad,  brown  hands,  he  tried  to  recall 
just  the  awkward  words  he  had  spoken  and  the  grace- 
ful answer  she  had  given  ;  answer  so  low  that  he 
would  hardly  have  known  she  was  speaking,  had 
not  his  face  been  so  near  to  hers  that  he  could  hear 
the  murmured  response, 

"  I  am  not  half  good  enough  for  you,  Adam,  and 
shall  make  a  sorry  wife  ;  but,  if  you  will  take  me 
with  all  my  faults,  I  am  yours/' 

That  was  what  she  had  said,  the  only  she  in  all 
the  world  to  Adam  Floyd,  now  that  the  churchyard 
grass  was  growing  over  the  poor  old  blind  mother, 
to  whom  he  had  been  the  tenderest,  best  of  sons, 
and  who  had  said  to  him  when  dying, 

"I'm  glad  I'm  going  home,  my  boy,  for  now  you 
can  bring  Anna  here.  She  is  a  bonny  creature,  I 
know  by  the  sound  of  her  voice  and  the  touch  of 
her  silky  hair.  Tell  her  how  with  my  last  breath 
I  blessed  her,  and  how  glad  I  was  to  think  that 
when  she  came,  the  old  blind  woman's  chair  would 
be  empty,  and  that  she  would  be  spared  a  heavy 
burden  which  she  is  far  too  young  to  bear.  God 
deal  by  her  as  she  deals  by  you,  my  noble  boy." 

The  March  winds  were  blowing  when  they  made 
his  mother's  grave,  and  Adam's  heart  was  not  as 


ADAM. 


273 


sore  now  as  on  that  dismal,  rainy  night,  when  he 
first  sat  alone  in  his  little  cottage  and  missed  the 
groping  hand  feeling  for  his  own.  Anna  was  com- 
ing within  a  week,  Anna  who  had.  said,  "I  am  not 
half  good  enough  for  you."  How  the  remembrance 
of  these  words  even  now  brought  a  smile  to  the 
lips  where  the  sweat  drops  were  standing  as  he 
toiled  for  her,  putting  the  last  finishing  strokes  to 
the  home  prepared  for  his  future  bride,  Anna 
Burroughs,  the  Deacon's  only  daughter,  the  fairest 
maiden  in  all  the  goodly  town  of  Rhodes — Anna, 
who  had  been  away  to  school  for  a  whole  year,  who 
could  speak  another  language  than  her  own,  whose 
hands  were  soft  and  white  as  wool,  whom  all  the 
village  lads  coveted,  and  at  whom  it  was  rumored 
even  Herbert  Dunallen  the  heir  of  Castlewild, 
where  Adam  worked  so  much,  had  cast  admiring 
glances.  Not  good  enough  for  him  ?  She  was  far 
too  good  for  a  great  burly  fellow  like  himself,  a 
poor  mechanic,  who  had  never  looked  into  the 
Algebras  and  Euclids  piled  on  Anna's  table  the 
morning  after  she  came  from  school.  This  was 
what  Adam  thought,  wondering  why  she  had  chosen 
him,  and  if  she  were  not  sorry.  Sometimes  of  late 
he  had  fancied  a  coldness  in  her  manner,  a  shrink- 
ing from  his  caresses  ;  but  the  very  idea  had  made 
12* 


274 


ADAM. 


his  great,  kind  heart,  throb  with  a  pang  so  keen 
that  he  had  striven  to  banish  it,  for  to  lose  his  dar- 
ling now  would  be  worse  than  death.  He  had 
thought  it  all  over  that  August  day,  when  he  nailed 
down  the  bright  new  carpet  in  what  was  to  be  her 
room.  "  Our  room,"  he  said  softly  to  himself,  as 
he  watched  his  coadjutor,  old  Aunt  Martha  East- 
man, smoothing  and  arranging  the  snowy  pillows 
upon  the  nicely  made  up  bed,  and  looping  with 
bows  of  pure  white  satin  the  muslin  curtains  which 
shaded  the  pretty  bay  window.  That  window  was 
his  own  handiwork.  He  had  planned  and  built  it 
himself,  for  Anna  was  partial  to  bay  windows.  He 
had  heard  her  say  so  once  when  she  came  up  to 
Castlewild  where  he  was  making  some  repairs,  and 
so  he  had  made  her  two,  one  in  the  bedroom,  and 
one  in  the  pleasant  parlor  looking  out  upon  the 
little  garden  full  of  flowers.  Adam's  taste  was  per- 
fect, and  many  a  passer  by  stopped  to  admire  the 
bird's  nest  cottage,  peeping  out  from  its  thick  cover- 
ing of  ivy  leaves  and  flowering  vines.  Adam  was 
pleased  with  it  himself,  and  when  the  last  tack  had 
been  driven  and  the  last  chair  set  in  its  place,  he 
went  over  it  alone  admiring  as  he  went,  and  won- 
dering how  it  would  strike  Anna.  Would  her  soft 
blue  eyes  light  up  with  joy,  or  would  they  wear 


ADAM. 


275 


the  troubled  look  he  had  sometimes  observed  in 
them  ?  "  If  they  do,"  and  Adam's  breath  came  hard 
as  he  said  it,  and  his  hands  were  locked  tightly  to- 
gether, "If  they  do,  I'll  lead  her  into  mother's 
room  ;  she  won't  deceive  me  there.  I'll  tell  her 
that  I  would  not  take  a  wife  who  does  not  love  me  ; 
that  though  to  give  her  up  is  like  tearing  out  my 
heart,  I'll  do  it  if  she  says  so,  and  Anna  will 
answer  " 

Adam  did  not  know  what,  and  the  very  possi- 
bility that  she  might  answer,  as  he  sometimes  feared, 
paled  his  bronzed  cheek,  and  made  him  reel,  as, 
walking  to  his  blind  mother's  chair,  he  knelt  beside 
it,  and  prayed  earnestly  for  grace  to  bear  the  happi- 
ness or  sorrow  there  might  be  in  store  for  him.  In 
early  youth,  Adam  had  learned  the  source  of  all 
true  peace,  and  now  in  every  perplexity,  however 
trivial,  he  turned  to  God,  who  was  pledged  to  care 
for  the  child,  trusting  so  implicitly  in  him. 

"If  it  is  right  for  Anna  to  be  mine,  give  her  to 
me,  but,  if  she  has  sickened  of  me,  oh,  Father,  help 
me  to  bear." 

This  was  Adam's  prayer,  and  when  it  was 
uttered,  the  pain  and  dread  were  gone,  and  the 
child-like  man  saw  no  cloud  lowering  on  his 
horizon. 


276 


ADAM. 


It  was  nearly  time  for  him  to  be  going  now,  if 
he  would  have  Anna  see  the  cottage  by  day-light, 
and  hastening  to  the  chamber  he  had  occupied  since 
he  was  a  boy,  he  put  on,  not  his  wedding  suit,  for 
that  was  safely  locked  in  his  trunk,  but  his  Sunday 
clothes,  feeling  a  pardonable  thrill  of  satisfaction 
when  he  saw  how  much  he  was  improved  by  dress. 
Not  that  Adam  Floyd  was  ever  ill-looking.  A 
stranger  would  have  singled  him  out  from  a  thou- 
sand. Tall,  straight  and  firmly  built,  with  the  flush 
of  perfect  health  upon  his  frank,  open  face,  and  the 
sparkle  of  intelligence  in  his  dark  brown  eyes,  he 
represented  a  rare  type  of  manly  beauty.  He  was 
looking  uncommonly  well,  too,  this  afternoon,  old 
Martha  thought,  as  from  the  kitchen  door  she 
watched  him  passing  down  the  walk  and  out  into 
the  road  which  lead  to  the  red  farm-house,  where 
Deacon  Burroughs  lived,  and  where  Anna  was 
Waiting  for  him. 


ANNA. 


277 


CHAPTER  II. 

ANNA. 

AITING  for  him,  we  said,  but  not  exactly 
as  Adam  Floyd  should  have  been  waited 
for.  Never  had  a  day  seemed  so  long  to 
her  as  that  which  to  Adam  had  passed  so 
quickly.  Restless  and  wretched  she  had  wandered 
many  times  from  the  garden  to  the  brook,  from  the 
brook  back  to  the  garden,  and  thence  to  her  own  little 
chamber,  from  whose  window,  looking  southward 
could  be  seen  the  chimney  of  the  cottage,  peeping 
through  the  trees.  At  this  she  looked  often  and 
long,  trying  to  silence  the  faithful  monitor  within, 
whispering  to  her  of  the  terrible  desolation  which 
would  soon  fall  upon  the  master  of  that  cottage,  if 
she  persisted  in  her  cruel  plan.  Then  she  glanced 
to  the  northward,  where,  from  the  hill  top,  rose  the 
pretentious  walls  of  Castlewild,  whose  young  heir 
had  come  between  her  and  her  affianced  husband  ; 
then  she  compared  them,  one  with  the  other — Adam 
Floyd  with  Herbert  Dunallen — one  the  rich  pro- 


278 


ANITA. 


prietor  of  Castlewild,  the  boyish  man  just  of  age, 
who  touched  his  hat  so  gracefully,  as  in  the  summer 
twilight  he  rode  in  his  handsome  carriage  past  her 
father's  door,  the  youth,  whose  manners  were  so 
elegant,  and  whose  hands  were  so  white  ;  the  other, 
a  mechanic,  a  carpenter  by  trade,  who  worked  some- 
times at  Castlewild — a  man  unversed  in  etiquette  as 
taught  in  fashion's  school,  and  who  could  neither 
dress,  nor  dance,  nor  flatter,  nor  bow  as  could 
Dunallen,  but  who  she  knew  he  was  tenfold  more 
worthy  of  her  esteem.  Alas,  for  Anna  ;  though  our 
heroine,  she  was  but  a  foolish  thing,  who  suffered 
fancy  to  rule  her  better  judgment,  and  let  her  heart 
turn  more  willingly  to  the  picture  of  Dunallen  than 
to  that  of  honest  Adam  Floyd,  hastening  on  to  join 
her. 

"  If  he  were  not  so  good,"  she  thought,  as  with  a 
shudder  she  turned  away  from  the  pretty  little 
work-box  he  had  brought  her  ;  "  if  he  had  ever  given 
me  an  unkind  word,  or  suspected  how  treacherous  I 
am,  it  would  not  seem  so  bad,  but  he  trusts  me  so 
much  !  Oh,  Adam,  I  wish  we  had  never  met  !"  and 
hiding  her  face  in  her  hands,  poor  Anna  w^ps 
passionately. 

There  was  a  hand  upon  the  gate,  and  Anna  knew 
whose  step  it  was  coming  so  cheerfully  up  the  walk, 


ANNA. 


279 


and  wondered  if  it  would  be  as  light  and  buoyant 
when  she  was  gone.  She  heard  him  in  their  little 
parlor,  talking  to  her  mother,  and,  as  she  listened, 
the  tones  of  his  voice  fell  soothingly  upon  her  ear, 
for  there  was  music  in  the  voice  of  Adam  Floyd,  and 
more  than  Anna  had  felt  its  quieting  influence.  It 
seemed  cruel  to  deceive  him  so  dreadfully,  and  in 
her  sorrow  Anna  sobbed  out, 

"Oh,  what  must  I  do?"  Once  she  thought  to 
pray,  but  she  could  not  do  that  now.  She  had  not 
prayed  aright  since  that  first  June  night  when  she 
met  young  Herbert  down  in  the  beech  grove,  and 
heard  him  speak  jestingly  of  her  lover,  saying  "  she 
was  far  too  pretty  and  refined  for  such  an  odd  old 
cove."  It  had  struck  her  then  that  this  cognomen 
was  not  exactly  refined,  that  Adam  Floyd  would 
never  have  called  Dunallen  thus,  but  Herbert's  arm 
was  round  her  waist,  where  only  Adam's  had  a  right 
to  rest.  Herbert's  eyes  were  bent  fondly  upon  her, 
and  so  she  forgave  the  insult  to  her  affianced  hus- 
band, and  tried  to  laugh  at  the  joke.  That  was  the 
first  open  act,  but  since  then  she  had  strayed  very 
far  from  the  path  of  duty,  until  now  she  had  half 
promised  to  forsake  Adam  Floyd  and  be  Dunallen 's 
bride.  That  very  day,  just  after  sunset  he  would  be 
waiting  in  the  beech  wood  grove  for  her  final  de- 


280 


ANNA. 


cision.  No  wonder  that  with  this  upon  her  mind 
she  shrank  from  meeting  her  lover,  whom  she  knew 
to  be  the  soul  of  truth  and  honor.  And  yet  she 
must  school  herself  to  go  with  him  over  the  house 
he  had  prepared  for  her  with  so  much  pride  and 
care.  Once  there  she  would  tell  him,  she  thought, 
how  the  love  she  once  bore  him  had  died  out  from 
her  heart.  She  would  not  speak  of  Herbert  Dunal- 
len  but  she  would  ask  to  be  released,  and  he,  the 
generous,  unselfish  man,  would  do  her  bidding. 

Anna  had  faith  in  Adam's  goodness,  and  this  it 
was  which  nerved  her  at  the  last  to  wash  the  tear- 
stains  from  her  face  and  rearrange  the  golden  curls 
falling  about  her  foreh  ad.  "  He'll  know  I've  been 
crying,"  she  said,  "  but  that  will  pave  the  way  to 
what  I  have  to  tell  him  ;"  and  with  one  hasty 
glance  at  the  fair  young  face  which  Adam  thought 
so  beautiful,  she  ran  lightly  down  the  stairs,  glad 
that  her  mother  was  present  when  she  first  greeted 
Adam.  But  the  mother,  remembering  her  own  girl- 
ish days,  soon  left  the  room,  and  the  lovers  were 
alone. 

"  What  is  it,  darling  ?  Are  you  sick  ?"  and 
Adam's  broad  palm  rested  caressingly  upon  the 
bowed  head  of  Anna,  who  could  not  meet  his  earnest 
glance  for  shame. 


ANNA.  281 

She  said  something  about  being  nervous  and 
tired  because  of  the  excessive  heat,  and  then,  steady- 
ing her  voice,  she  continued  : 

%i  You  have  come  for  me  to  see  the  cottage,  I  sup- 
pose. We  will  go  at  once,  as  I  must  return  before 
it's  dark." 

Her  manner  troubled  him,  but  he  made  no  com- 
ment until  they  were  out  upon  the  highway,  when 
he  said  to  her  timidly,  "  If  you  are  tired,  perhaps 
you  would  not  mind  taking  my  arm.  Folks  will 
not  talk  about  it,  now  we  are  so  near  being  one." 

Anna  could  not  take  his  arm,  so  she  replied  : 
"  Somebody  might  gossip  ;  I'd  better  walk  alone/' 
and  coquettishly  swinging  the  hat  she  carried  instead 
of  wore,  she  walked  by  his  side  silently,  save  when 
he  addressed  her  directly.  Poor  Adam  !  there  were 
clouds  gathering  around  his  heart,  blacker  far  than 
the  dark  rift  rising  so  rapidly  in  the  western  sky. 
There  was  something  the  matter  with  Anna  more 
than  weariness  or  heat,  but  he  would  not  question 
her  there,  and  so  a  dead  silence  fell  between  them 
until  the  cottage  was  reached,  and  standing  with  her 
on  the  threshold  of  the  door,  he  said,  mournfully, 
but  oh  !  so  tenderly,  "Does  my  little  Blossom  like 
the  home  I  have  prepared  for  her,  and  is  she  willing 
to  live  here  with  me  ?" 


282 


IN    THE  COTTAGE. 


CHAPTER  III. 

IN  THE  COTTAGE. 

HE  seemed  to  him  so  fair,  so  pure,  so  like 
the  apple  blossoms  of  early  June,  that 
he  often  called  her  his  little  Blossom, 
but  now  there  was  a  touching  pathos  in 
the  tones  of  his  voice  as  he  repeated  the  pet  name, 
and  it  wrung  from  Anna  a  gush  of  tears.  Lifting 
her  blue  eyes  to  his  for  an  instant,  she  laid  her  head 
upon  his  arm  and  cried  piteously  : 

"  Oh,  Adam,  you  are  so  good,  so  much  better 
than  I  deserve.    Yes,  I  like  it,  so  much/' 

Was  it  a  sense  of  his  goodness  which  made  her 
cry,  or  was  it  something  else?  Adam  wished  he 
knew,  but  he  would  rather  she  should  tell  him  of 
her  own  accord,  and  winding  his  arm  around  her, 
he  lifted  up  her  head  and  wiping  her  tears  away, 
kissed  her  gently,  saying,  "Does  Blossom  like  to 
have  me  kiss  her  ?" 

She  did  not,  but  she  could  not  tell  him  so  when 


IN   THE  COTTAGE. 


283 


he  bent  so  fondly  over  her,  his  face  all  aglow  with 
the  mighty  love  he  bore  her.  Affecting  not  to  hear 
his  question  she  broke  away  from  his  embrace  and 
seating  herself  in  the  bay  window,  began  talking  of 
its  pretty  effect  from  the  road,  and  the  great  im- 
provement it  was  to  the  cottage.  Still  she  did  not 
deceive  Adam  Floyd,  who  all  the  while  her  playful 
remarks  were  sounding  in  his  ear  was  nerving  him- 
self to  a  task  he  meant  to  perform.  But  not  in  any 
of  the  rooms  he  had  fitted  up  for  her  could  he  say 
that  if  she  would  have  it  so  she  was  free  from  him, 
even  though  the  bridal  was  only  a  week  in  advance 
and  the  bridal  guests  were  bidden.  Only  in  one 
room,  his  dead  mother's,  couid  he  tell  her  this.  That 
had  been  to  him  a  Bethel  since  his  blind  mother  left 
it.  Its  walls  had  witnessed  most  of  his  secret 
sorrows  and  his  joys,  and  there,  if  it  must  be,  he 
would  break  his  heart  by  giving  Anna  up. 

"  I  did  not  change  mother's  room,"  he  said,  lead- 
ing Anna  to  the  arm-chair  where  none  had  sat  since 
an  aged,  withered  form,  last  rested  there.  "  I'd 
rather  see  it  as  it  used  to  be  when  she  tvas  here,  and 
I  thought  you  would  not  mind." 

"  It  is  better  to  leave  it  so,"  Anna  said,  while 
Adam  continued, 

"  I'm  glad  you  like  our  home.    I  think  myself  it 


284 


IN    THE  COTTAGE. 


is  pleasant,  and  so  does  every  one.  Even  Dunallen 
complimented  it  very  highly." 

" Dunallen  ;  has  he  been  here?"  and  Anna 
blushed  painfully. 

But  Adam  was  not  looking  at  her.  He  had 
never  associated  the  heir  of  Castlewild  with  Anna's 
changed  demeanor,  and  wholly  unconscious  of  the 
pain  he  was  inflicting,  he  went  on, 

"  He  went  all  over  the  house  this  morning, 
except  indeed  in  here.  I  could  not  admit  him  to  the 
room  where  mother  died.  Did  I  tell  you  that  he 
had  hired  me  for  a  long  and  profitable  job  ?  He  is 
going  to  make  some  repairs  at  Castlewild  before 
he  brings  home  his  bride.  You  know  he  is  engaged 
to  a  young  heiress,  Mildred  Atherton." 

It  was  well  for  Anna  that  her  face  was  turned 
from  Adam  as  she  replied, 

"Yes,  I've  heard  something  of  an  engagement 
made  by  the  family  when  he  was  a  mere  boy.  I 
thought  perhaps  he  had  tired  of  it." 

"Oh,  no;  he  told  me  only  to-day  that  he  ex- 
pected to  bring  his  wife  to  Castlewild  as  early  as 
Christmas.  We  were  speaking  of  you  and  our 
marriage." 

"Of  me?"  and  Anna  looked  up  quickly,  but 
poor,  deluded  Adam,  mistook  her  guilty  flush  for  a 


IN   THE  COTTAGE. 


28U 


kind  of  grateful  pride  that  Dunallen  should  talk  of 
her. 

"  He  said  you  were  the  prettiest  girl  he  ever  saw, 
and  when  I  suggested,  "except  Miss  Atherton,"  he 
added,  '  I  will  not  except  any  one  ;  Milly  is  pretty, 
but  not  like  your  fiancee'  " 

Anna  had  not  fallen  so  low  that  she  could  not 
see  how  mean  and  dastardly  it  was  for  Herbert 
Dunallen  to  talk  thus  of  her  to  the  very  man  he  was 
intending  to  wrong  so  cruelly  ;  and  for  a  moment 
a  life  with  Adam  Floyd  looked  more  desirable  than 
a  life  with  Herbert  Dunallen,  even  though  it  were 
spent  in  the  midst  of  elegance  of  which  she  h#d 
never  dreamed.  Anna's  good  angel  was  fast  gain- 
ing the  ascendency,  and  might  have  triumphed  had 
not  the  sound  of  horse's  feet  just  then  met  her  ear, 
and  looking  from  the  window  she  saw  Herbert 
Dunallen  riding  by,  his  dark  curls  floating  in  the 
wind  and  his  cheek  flushing  with  exercise.  He  saw 
her,  too,  and  quickly  touching  his  cap,  pointed 
adroitly  towards  the  beechwood  grove.  With  his 
disappearance  over  the  hill  her  good  angel  flew 
away,  and  on  her  face  there  settled  the  same  cold, 
unhappy  look,  which  had  troubled  Adam  so  much. 

"  Darling," he  said,  when  he  spoke  again,  "there 
is  something  on  your  mind  which  I  do  not  under- 


286 


IN   TEE  COTTAGE. 


stand.  If  you  are  to  be  my  wife,  there  should  be 
no  secrets  between  us.  Will  you  tell  me  what  it  is, 
and  if  I  can  help  you  I  will,  even  though — 
though  " 

His  voice  began  to  falter,  for  the  white,  hard 
look  on  Anna's  face  frightened  him,  and  at  last  in 
an  agony  of  terror,  he  grasped  both  her  hands  in 
his  and  added  impetuously  : 

"  Even  though  it  be  to  give  you  up,  you  whom 
I  love  better  than  my  life — for  whom  I  would  die 
so  willingly.  Oh,  Anna  !"  and  he  sank  on  his  knees 
beside  her,  and  winding  his  arms  around  her  waist, 
looked  her  imploringly  in  the  face.  "  I  sometimes 
fear  that  you  have  sickened  of  me — that  you  shrink 
from  my  caresses.  If  it  is  so,  in  mercy  tell  me  now, 
before  it  is  too  late;  for,  Anna,  dear  as  you  are  to 
me,  I  would  rather  to-morrow's  sunshine  should  fall 
upon  your  grave  and  mine,  than  take  you  to  my 
bosom  an  unloving  wife  !  I  have  worked  for  you, 
early  and  late,  thinking  only  how  you  might  be 
pleased.  There  is  not  a  niche  or  corner  in  my 
home  that  is  not  hallowed  by  thoughts  of  you  whom 
I  have  loved  since  you  were  a  little  child  and  I 
carried  you  in  the  arms  which  now  would  be  your 
resting  place  forever.  I  know  I  am  not  your  equal, 
I  feel  it  painfully,  but  I  can  learn  with  you  as  my 


IN  THE  COTTAGE. 


237 


teacher,  and,  my  precious  Anna,  whatever  I  may 
lack  in  polish,  I  will,  I  will  make  up  in  kindness  !" 

He  was  pleading  now  for  her  love,  forgetting 
that  she  Avas  his  promised  wife — forgetting  every- 
thing, save  that  to  his  words  of  passionate  appeal 
there  came  no  answering  response  in  the  expression 
of  her  face.  Only  the  same  fixed,  stony  look,  which 
almost  maddened  him  ;  it  was  so  unlike  what  he 
deserved  and  had  reason  to  expect. 

"I  shall  be  lonely  without  you,  Anna — more 
lonely  than  you  can  guess,  for  there  is  no  mother 
here  now  to  bless  and  cheer  me  as  she  would  hav£ 
cheered  me  in  my  great  sorrow.  She  loved  ycu, 
Anna,  and  blessed  you  with  her  dying  breath,  fray- 
ing she  was  glad,  for  your  sake,  that  the  chair  where 
you  sit  would  be  empty  when  you  came,  and  ask- 
ing God  to  deal  by  you  even  as  you  dealt  by  me." 

"Oh,  Adam,  Adam!"  Anna  gasped,  for  what 
had  been  meant  for  a  blessing  rang  in  her  ears  like 
that  blind  woman's  curse.  "  May  God  deal  better 
by  me  than  I  meant  to  deal  by  you  !"  she  tried  to 
say,  but  the  words  died  on  her  lips,  and  she  could 
only  lay  her  cold  hands  on  the  shoulder  of  him 
who  still  knelt  before  her,  with  his  arms  around 
her  waist. 

Softly,  gladly  came  the  good  angel  back,  and 


288 


IN    THE  COTTAGE. 


'mid  a  rain  of  tears  which  dropped  on  Adam's  hair, 
Anna  wept  her  hardness  all  away,  while  the  only 
sound  heard  in  the  room  was  the  beating  of  two 
hearts  and  the  occasional  roll  of  thunder  muttering 
in  the  distance.  In  reality  it  was  only  a  few  mo- 
ments, but  to  Anna  it  seemed  a  long,  long  time 
that  they  sat  thus  together,  her  face  bent  down  upon 
his  head,  while  she  thought  of  all  the  past  since  she 
could  remember  Adam  Floyd  and  the  blind  old 
woman,  his  mother.  He  had  been  a  dutiful  son, 
Anna  knew,  for  she  had  heard  how  tenderly  he 
would  bear  his  mother  in  his  strong  arms  or  guide 
her  uncertain  steps,  and  how  at  the  last  he  sat  by 
her  night  after  night,  never  wearying  of  the  tire- 
some vigil  until  it  was  ended,  and  the  sightless  eyes, 
which  in  death  turned  lovingly  to  him,  were  opened 
to  the  light  of  Heaven.  To  such  as  Adam  Floyd 
the  commandment  of  promise  was  rife  with  mean- 
ing. God  would  prolong  his  days  and  punish  those 
who  wronged  him.  He  who  had  been  so  faithful 
to  his  mother,  would  be  true  to  his  wife — aye,  truer 
far  than  young  Dunallen,  with  all  his  polish  and 
wealth. 

"Adam,"  Anna  began  at  last,  so  low  that  he 
scarcely  could  hear  her.  "  Adam  forgive  me  all 
that  is  past.    I  have  been  cold  and  indifferent,  have 


IN   THE  COTTAGE. 


289 


treated  you  as  I  ought  not,  but  I  am  young  and 
foolish,  I — I — oh  !  Adam,  I  mean  to  do  better.  I — " 

She  could  not  say,  "will  banish  Dunallen  from 
my  mind" — it  was  not  necessary  to  mention  him, 
she  thought  ;  but  some  explanation  must  be  made, 
and  so,  steadying  her  voice,  she  told  him  how  dearly 
she  had  loved  him  once,  thinking  there  was  not  in 
all  the  world  his  equal,  but  that  during  the  year  at 
a  city  school  she  had  acquired  some  foolish  notions 
and  had  sometimes  wished  her  lover  different.. 

"  Not  better  at  heart.  You  could  not  be  that," 
she  said,  looking  him  now  fully  in  the  face,  for  she 
was  conscious  of  meaning  what  she  said,  "  but — 
but— " 

"  You  need  not  finish  it,  darling  ;  I  know  what 
you  mean/'  Adam  said,  the  cloud  lifting  in  a  measure 
from  his  brow.  "I  am  not  refined  one  bit,  but  my 
Blossom  is,  and  she  shall  teach  me.  I  will  try  hard 
to  learn.  I  will  not  often  make  her  ashamed.  I 
will  even  imitate  Dunallen,  if  that  will  gratify  my 
darling." 

Why  would  he  keep  bringing  in  that  name,  when 
the  sound  of  it  was  so  like  a  dagger  to  Anna's  heart, 
and  when  she  wished  she  might  never  hear  it  again  ? 
"He  was  waiting  for  her  now  in  the  Beech  woods  she 
knew,  for  she  was  to  join  him  there  ere  long,  not  to 
13 


290 


IN   THE  COTTAGE. 


say  what  she  would  have  said  an  hour  ago,  but  to 
say  that  she  could  not,  would  not  wrong  the  noble 
man  who  held  her  to  his  bosom  so  lovingly  as  he 
promised  to  copy  Dunallen.  And  as  Anna  suffered 
him  to  caress  her,  she  felt  her  olden  love  coming 
back.  She  should  be  happy  with  him — happier  far 
than  if  she  were  the  mistress  of  Castlewild,  and 
knew  that  to  attain  that  honor  she  had  broken 
Adam's  heart. 

"  As  a  proof  that  you  trust  me  fully,"  she  said, 
as  the  the  twilight  shadows  deepened  around  them, 
"  you  must  let  me  go  home  alone,  I  wish  it  for  a 
special  reason.  You  must  not  tell  me  no/'  and  the 
pretty  lips  touched  his  bearded  cheek. 

Adam  wanted  to  walk  with  her  down  the  pleasant 
road,  where  they  had  walked  so  often,  but  he  saw  she 
was  in  earnest,  and  so  he  suffered  her  to  depart 
alone,  watching  her  until  the  flutter  of  her  light 
dress  was  lost  to  view.  Then  kneeling  by  the  chair 
where  she  had  sat  so  recently,  he  asked  that  the  cup 
of  joy,  placed  again  in  his  eager  hand,  might  not  be 
wrested  from  him,  that  he  might  prove  worthy  of 
Anna's  love,  and  that  no  cloud  should  ever  again 
come  between  them. 


2JV  THE  BEECH  WOODS. 


291 


CHAPTER  IV. 

IN  THE  BEECH  WOODS. 

ERBERT  DUNALLEN  had  waited  there 
a  long  time,  as  he  thought,  and  he  began 
to  grow  impatient.  What  business  had 
Anna  to  stay  with  that  old  fellow,  if  she 
did  not  mean  to  have  him,  and  of  course  she  did 
not.  It  would  be  a  most  preposterous  piece  of 
business  for  a  girl  like  Anna  to  throw  herself  away 
upon  such  as  Adam  Floyd,  carpenter  by  trade,  and 
general  repairer  of  things  at  Castlewild.  Whew- 
ew  !  and  Herbert  whistled  contemptuously,  adding 
in  a  low  voice,  "  and  yet  my  lady  mother  would  raise 
a  beautiful  rumpus  if  she  knew  I  was  about  to  make 
this  little  village  rustic  her  daughter-in-law.  For  I 
am  ;  if  there's  one  redeeming  trait  in  my  character, 
it's  being  honorable  in  my  intentions  toward  Anna. 
Most  men  in  my  position  would  only  trifle  with  her, 


292 


IN   THE   BEECH  WOODS. 


particularly  when  there  was  in  the  background  a 
Mildred  Atherton,  dreadfully  in  love  with  them.  I 
wonder  what  makes  all  the  girls  admire  me  so  ?"  and 
the  vain  young  man  stroked  his  mustache  compla- 
cently, just  as  a  rapid  footstep  sounded  near. 

It  was  Anna's,  and  the  next  moment  he  held  her 
in  his  arms.  But  she  would  not  suffer  him  to  keep 
her  there,  and  with  a  quiet  dignity  which  for  an  in- 
stant startled  him  beyond  the  power  to  speak  or  act, 
she  put  his  arm  away,  and  standing  apart  from  him, 
told  him  of  her  resolution,  and  reproached  him  with 
his  duplicity,  asking  him  how  he  could  tell  Adam 
that  he  was  about  to  be  married. 

"  Because  I  am,"  he  replied.  "I  am  not  to  blame 
for  his  believing  silly  little  Milly  to  be  the  bride 
elect.  Won't  it  be  famous,  though,  for  you  to  or- 
der round  your  former  lover  ?  I've  engaged  him 
for  a  long  job,  and  you  ought  to  have  seen  how 
glad  he  was  of  the  work,  thinking,  of  course,  how 
much  he  should  earn  for  you.  I  came  near  laugh- 
ing in  his  face  when  he  hoped  I  should  be  as  happy 
with  Miss  Mildred  as  he  expected  to  be  with 
you." 

"You  shan't  speak  so  of  Adam  Floyd!"  and 
Anna's  little  foot  beat  the  ground  impatiently,  while 
indignant  tears  glittered  in  her  blue  eyes  as  she 


IN    THE  BEECH  WOODS. 


293 


again  reiterated  that  Adam  Floyd  should  be  her 
husband. 

"Not  while  I  live!"  Herbert  responded  almost 
fiercely,  for  he  saw  in  her  manner  a  determination 
he  had  never  witnessed  before. 

As  well  as  he  was  capable  of  doing  he  loved 
Anna  Burroughs,  and  the  fact  that  she  was  pledged 
to  another  added  fuel  to  the  flame. 

"What  new  freak  has  taken  my  fickle  goddess  ?" 
he  asked,  looking  down  upon  her  with  a  mocking 
sneer  about  his  mouth  as  she  told  him  why  she 
could  not  go  with  him. 

He  knew  she  was  in  earnest  at  last,  and,  drop- 
ping his  jesting  tone,  he  made  her  sit  down  beside 
him,  while  he  used  every  possible  argument  to  dis- 
suade her  from  her  purpose,  working  first  upon  her 
pride,  flattering  her  vanity,  portraying  the  happi- 
ness of  a  tour  through  Europe,  a  winter  in  Paris, 
and  lastly  touching  upon  the  advantages  of  being 
lady  supreme  at  Castlewild,  with  a  house  in  the 
city,  for  winter.  And  as  changeable,  ambitious, 
Anna  listened,  she  felt  her  resolution  giving  way, 
felt  the  ground  which  she  had  taken  slipping  from 
beneath  her  feet  without  one  effort  to  save  her- 
self. 

"  It  seems  terrible  to  wrong  Adam,"  she  said, 


294 


IN  THE  BEECH  WOODS. 


and,  by  the  tone  of  her  voice,  Herbert  knew  the  vio* 
tory  was  two  thirds  won. 

"  Adam  will  do  well  enough,"  he  replied.  "  Peo* 
pie  like  him  never  die  of  broken  hearts  !  He's  a 
good  fellow,  but  not  the  one  for  you  ;  besides,  you 
know  he's  what  they  call  pious,  just  like  Milly  ; 
and,  I  presume,  he'll  say  it  was  not  so  wicked  for 
you  to  cheat  him  as  to  perjure  yourself,  as  you  sure- 
ly would,  by  promising  to  love  and  honor  and  all 
that  when  you  didn't  feel  a  bit  of  it  !" 

"What  was  that  you  said  of  Miss  Atherton  ?" 
Anna  asked  eagerly,  for  she  had  caught  the  word 
pious,  and  it  made  her  heart  throb  with  pain,  for 
she  knew  that  Herbert  Dunallen  could  not  say  as 
much  of  her ! 

Once,  indeed,  it  had  been  otherwise,  but  that  was 
before  she  had  met  him  in  the  woods, — before  she 
ceased  to  pray.  Oh,  that  happy  time  when  she  had 
dared  to  pray  !  How  she  wished  it  would  come 
back  to  her  again  ;  but  it  had  drifted  far  away,  and 
left  a  void  as  black  as  the  night  closing  around  her 
or  the  heavy  thunder  clouds  rolling  above  her  head. 

Tightly  her  hands  clenched  each  other  as  Her- 
bert answered  jestingly. 

"  She's  one  of  the  religious  ones,  Milly  is  ;  writes 
me  such  good  letters.    I've  one  of  them  in  my 


IN   TEE  BEECH  WOODS. 


295 


pocket  now.  She's  coming  to  see  me  ;  is  actually 
on  the  way,  so  to-morrow  night,  or  never,  my 
bride  you  must  be." 

"  Miss  Atherton  coming  here  !  What  do  you 
mean  ?"    Anna  asked,  and  Herbert  replied, 

"I  mean,  Mildred  has  always  been  in  a  fever  to 
see  Castlewild,  and  as  she  is  intimate  with  Mrs. 
Judge  Harcourt's  family,  she  is  coming  there  on  a 
visit.  Will  arrive  to-morrow,  her  note  said  ;  and 
will  expect  to  see  me  immediately  after  her  arrival.,, 

Herbert's  influence  over  Anna  was  too  great 
for  her  to  attempt  to  stop  him,  so  she  offered  no 
remonstrance,  when  he  continued  ! 

"  I  suppose  Milly  will  cry  a  little,  for  I  do  be- 
lieve she  likes  me,  and  always  has  ;  but  I  can't  help 
it.  The  match  was  agreed  upon  by  our  families 
when  she  was  twelve  and  I  fifteen.  Of  course  I'm 
awfully  sick  of  it,  and  have  been  ever  since  I  knew 
you,"  and  Herbert's  lips  touched  the  white  brow 
where  only  half  an  hour  before  Adam  Floyd's  had 
been. 

Thicker,  and  blacker,  grew  the  darkness  around 
them,  while  the  thunder  was  louder  and  nearer,  and 
still  they  sat  together,  Anna  hesitating,  while 
Herbert  urged  upon  her  the  necessity  of  going  with 
him  the  following  night,  if  ever. 


296 


IF   THE  BEECH  WOODS. 


Mildred  in  the  neighborhood  would  be  as  formid- 
able an  obstacle  to  him  as  Adam  was  to  Anna,  while 
he  feared  the  result  of  another  interview  between 
the  affianced  pair.  With  all  his  love  for  Anna  he 
was  not  blind  to  the  fact  that  the  last  one  with 
whom  she  talked  had  the  better  chance  of  eventu- 
ally winning.  He  could  not  lose  her  now,  and  he 
redoubled  his  powers  of  persuasion,  until,  forget- 
ting everything,  save  the  handsome  youth  beside 
her,  the  wealthy  heir  of  Castlewild,  Anna  said  to 
him, 

"I  will  meet  you  at  our  gate  when  the  vil- 
lage clock  strikes  one  !"  and  as  she  said  the  words 
the  woods  were  lighted  up  by  a  flash  of  light- 
ning so  fearfully  bright  and  blinding  that  with 
a  scream  of  terror  she  hid  her  face  in  her  lap  and 
stopped  her  ears  to  shut  out  the  deafening  roll  of 
the  thunder.  The  storm  had  burst  in  all  its  fury, 
and  hurrying  from  the  woods,  Herbert  half  carried, 
half  led  the  frightened  Anna  across  the  fields  in 
the  direction  of  her  father's  door.  Depositing  her 
at  the  gate,  he  paused  for  an  instant  to  whisper  his 
parting  words  and  then  hastened  rapidly  on. 

On  the  kitchen  hearth  a  cheerful  wood  fire  had 
been  kindled,  and  making  some  faint  excuse  for 
having  been  out  in  the  storm,  Anna  repaired  thither, 


IN   TEE   BEECH  WOODS. 


297 


and  standing  before  the  blaze  was  drying  her  drip- 
ping garments,  when  a  voice  from  the  adjoining 
room  made  her  start  and  tremble,  for  she  knew  that 
it  was  Adam's. 

He  seemed  to  be  excited  and  was  asking  for  her. 
An  accident  had  occurred  just  before  his  door. 
Frightened  by  the  lightning  which  Anna  remem- 
bered so  well,  a  pair  of  spirited  horses  had  upset  a 
traveling  carriage,  in  which  was  a  young  lady  and 
her  maid.  The  latter  had  sustained  no  injury,  but 
the  lady's  ankle  was  sprained,  and  she  was  otherwise 
so  lamed  and  bruised  that  it  was  impossible  for  her 
to  proceed  any  farther  that  night.  So  he  had 
carried  her  into  his  cottage  and  dispatching  the 
driver  for  the  physician  had  come  himself  for  Anna 
as  the  suitable  person  to  play  the  hostess  in  his  home. 

"  Oh,  I  can't  go, — mother,  you  !"  Anna  exclaimed, 
shrinking  in  terror  from  again  crossing  the  thresh- 
old of  the  home  she  was  about  to  make  so  deso- 
late. 

But  Adam  preferred  Anna.  The  lady  was  young, 
he  said,  and  it  seemed  to  him  more  appropriate  that 
Anna  should  attend  her.  Mrs.  Burroughs  thought 
so,  too,  and,  with  a  sinking  heart,  Anna  prepared 
herself  for  a  second  visit  to  the  cottage.  In  her 
13* 


298 


IN   THE  BEECH  WOODS. 


excitement  she  forgot  entirely  to  ask  the  name  of 
the  stranger,  and  as  she  was  not  disposed  to  talk, 
nothing  was  said  of  the  lady  until  the  cottage  was 
reached  and  she  was  ushered  into  the  dining-room, 
where  old  Martha  and  a  smart  looking  servant  were 
busy  with  the  bandages  and  hot  water  preparing 
for  the  invalid  who  had  been  carried  to  the  pleasant 
bed-room  opening  from  the  parlor. 


M1LBEED  ATREILTOm 


299 


CHAPTER  V. 

MILDRED  ATHERTON. 

OW  is  Miss  Atherton  ?"  Adam  asked  of 
Martha,  while  he  kindly  attempted  to 
assist  Anna  in  removing  the  heavy- 
shawl  her  mother  had  wrapped  around 
her. 

"  Who  ?  What  did  you  call  her  ?"  Anna  asked, 
her  hands  dropping  helplessly  at  her  side. 

"Why,  I  thought  I  told  you.  I  surely  did  your 
mother.  I  beg  pardon  for  my  carelessness.  It  s 
Mildred  Atherton,"  and  Adam's  voice  sank  to  a 
whisper.  4<  She  was  on  her  way  to  visit  Mrs.  Har- 
court.  I  suppose  it  would  be  well  to  send  for 
Dunallen,  but  I  thought  it  hardly  proper  for  me  to 
suggest  it.  I'll  let  you  get  at  it  somehow,  and  see 
if  she  wants  him.  You  girls  have  a  way  of  under- 
standing each  other." 

Knowing  how,  in  similar  circumstances,  he 
should  yearn    for  Anna's   presence,  Adam  had 


300 


MILDRED  ATHERTOK 


deemed  it  natural  that  Mildred's  first  wish  would  be 
for  Herbert,  and  one  reason  for  his  insisting  that 
Anna  should  come  back  with  him  was  the  feeling 
that  the  beautiful  girl,  whose  face  had  interested 
him  at  once,  would  be  more  free  to  communicate 
her  wishes  to  one  of  her  own  age. 

"  Mildred  Atherton,"  Anna  kept  repeating  to 
herself,  every  vestige  of  color  fading  from  her 
cheeks  and  lips,  as  she  wondered  how  she  could 
meet  her,  or  what  the  result  of  the  meeting  would 
be. 

"  Sarah,  where  are  you  ?  Has  everybody  left 
me  ?"  came  from  the  bed,  where  the  outline  of  a 
girlish  form  was  plainly  discernible  to  Anna,  who 
started  at  the  tones  of  what  seemed  to  her  the  sweet- 
est voice  she  had  ever  heard. 

"Go  to  her,,,  Adam  whispered,  and  Anna 
mechanically  obeyed. 

Gliding  to  the  beside,  she  stood  a  moment 
gazing  upon  the  beautiful  face  nestled  among  the 
snowy  pillows.  The  eyes  were  closed,  and  the  long, 
silken  lashes  shaded  the  fair,  round  cheek,  not  one 
half  so  white  as  Anna's,  notwithstanding  that  a 
spasm  of  pain  occasionally  distorted  the  regular 
features,  and  wrung  a  faint  cry  from  the  pretty  lips 
Masses  of  soft  black  curls  were  pushed  back  from 


MILDRED  ATEERTOK 


301 


the  forehead,  and  one  hand  lay  outside  the  counter- 
pane, a  little  soft,  fat  hand,  on  whose  fourth  finger 
shone  the  engagement  ring,  the  seal  of  her  betrothal 
to  the  heir  of  Castlewild  !  Oh,  how  debased  and 
wicked  Anna  felt  standing  by  that  innocent  girl, 
and  how  she  marveled  that  having  known  Mildred 
Atherton,  Herbert  Dunallen  could  ever  have  turned 
to  her.  Involuntarily  a  sigh  escaped  her  lips,  and 
at  the  sound  the  soft  black  eyes  unclosed,  and  looked 
at  her  wonderingly.  Then  a  smile  broke  over  the 
fair  face,  and  extending  her  hand  to  Anna,  Mildred 
said, 

"  Where  am  I  ?  My  head  feels  so  confused.  I 
remember  the  horses  reared  when  that  flash  of 
lightning  came,  the  carriage  was  overturned,  and 
some  young  man,  who  seemed  a  second  Apollo  in 
strength  and  beauty,  brought  me  in  somewhere  so 
gently  and  carefully,  that  I  could  have  hugged  him 
for  it,  he  was  so  good.    Are  you  his  sister  !" 

"  No,  I  am  Anna  Burroughs.  He  came  for  me," 
Anna  replied,  and  looking  her  full  in  the  face, 
Mildred  continued, 

"  Yes,  I  remember  now,  his  nurse  or  housekeeper 
told  me  he  had  gone  for  the  girl  who  was  to  be  his 
wife  ;  and  you  are  she.  It's  pleasant  to  be  engaged, 
isn't  it?"  and  Mildred's  hand  gave  Anna's  a  little 


302 


MILDRED  ATHERTON. 


confidential  squeeze,  which,  quite  as  much  as  the 
words  she  had  uttered,  showed  how  affectionate  and 
confiding  was  her  disposition. 

The  entrance  of  the  physician  put  an  end  to  the 
conversation,  and  withdrawing  to  a  little  distance 
where  in  the  shadow  she  could  not  be  well  observed 
Anna  stood;,  while  the  doctor  examined  the  swollen 
ankle,  and  his  volatile  patient  explained  to  him  in 
detail  how  it  all  happened,  making  herself  out  quite 
a  heroine  for  courage  and  presence  of  mind,  asking 
if  he  knew  Mrs.  Harcourt,  and  if  next  morning  he 
would  not  be  kind  enough  to  let  her  know  that 
Mildred  Atherton  waa  at  the  cottage.  The  doctor 
promised  whatever  she  asked,  and  was  about  to  leave 
the  room,  when  Adam  stepped  forward  and  said, 

"  Is  there  any  one  else  whom  Miss  Atherton 
would  like  to  see — any  friend  in  the  neighborhood 
who  ought  to  be  informed  ?" 

Eagerly  Anna  waited  for  the  answer,  watching 
half  jealously  the  crimson  flush  stealing  over  Mil- 
dred face,  as  she  replied, 

"  Not  to-night  ;  it  would  do  no  good  ;  to- 
morrow is  soon  enough.  I  never  like  to  make  un- 
necessary trouble." 

The  head  which  had  been  raised  while  Mildred 
spoke  to  Adam  lay  back  upon  the  pillow,  but  not 


MILDRED  ATHERTOK 


303 


until  with  a  second  thought  the  sweet  voice  had  said 
to  him, 

"I  thank  you,  sir,  you  are  so  kind." 

As  a  creature  of  impulse,  Anna  felt  a  passing 
thrill  of  something  like  pride  in  Adam  as  Mildred 
Atherton  spoke  thus  to  him,  and  when  as  he  passed 
her  he  involuntarily  laid  his  hand  a  moment  on  her 
shoulder  she  did  not  shake  it  off,  though  her  heart 
throbbed  painfully  with  thoughts  of  her  intended 
treachery.  They  were  alone  now,  Mildred  and 
Anna,  and  beckoning  the  latter  to  her  side,  Mildred 
said  to  her. 

"  He  meant  Herbert  Dunallen.  How  did  he 
know  that  I  am  to  be  Herbert's  wife  V 

There  was  no  tremor  in  her  voice.  She  spoke 
of  Herbert  as  a  matter  of  course,  while  Anna  could 
hardly  find  courage  to  reply. 

"  Mr.  Floyd  works  at  Castlewild  sometimes,  and 
probably  has  heard  Mr.  Dunallen  speak  of  you." 

"Mr.  Floyd— Adam  Floyd,  is  that  the  young 
man's  name?"  was  Mildred's  next  question,  and 
when  Anna  answered  in  the  affirmative,  she  con- 
tinued, "  I  have  heard  of  him.  Herbert  wrote  how 
invaluable  he  was  and  how  superior  to  most 
mechanics — his  prime  minister  in  fact.    I  am  glad 


304 


MILDRED   A  THE RT  OK 


the  accident  happened  here,  and  Herbert  too  will 
be  glad." 

For  a  moment  Mildred  seemed  to  be  thinking, 
then  starting  up,  she  said,  abruptly. 

And  it  was  Anna — Anna  Burroughs,  yes,  I'm 
sure  that's  the  name.  Would  you  mind  putting 
that  lamp  nearer  to  me,  and  coming  yourself  where 
I  can  see  just  how  you  look  ?" 

Anna  shrank  from  the  gaze  of  those  clear,  truth- 
ful eyes,  but  something  in  Mildred's  manner  im- 
pelled her  to  do  as  she  was  requested,  and  moving 
the  lamp  she  came  so  near  that  Mildred  placed  a 
hand  on  either  side  of  her  burning  face  and  gazed 
at  it  curiously  ;  then,  pushing  back  the  golden  hair, 
and  twining  one  of  the  curls  a  moment  about  her 
finger,  she  laid  it  by  her  own  long,  black  shining 
tresses,  saying  sadly,  "I  wish  my  curls  were  light 
and  fair  like  yours.  It  would  suit  Herbert  better. 
He  fancies  a  blonde  more  than  a  brunette,  at  least 
he  told  me  as  much  that  time  he  wrote  to  me  of 
you.' 

"  Of  me  ?"  Anna  asked  anxiously,  the  color  re- 
ceding from  her  cheek  and  lip.  "  Why  did  he  write 
of  me,  and  when  ?" 

The  dark  eyes  were  shut  now  and  Anna  could 
see  the  closed  lids  quiver,  just  as  did  the  sweet  voice 


MILDRED    ATUERTOK  305 

which  replied,  "  It's  strange  to  talk  so  openly  to  you 
as  if  we  were  dear  friends,  as  we  will  be  when  I 
come  to  Castlevvild  to  live.  It  is  my  nature  to  say 
right  out  what  I  think,  and  people  sometimes  call 
me  silly.  Herbert  does,  but  I  don't  care.  When 
I  like  a  person  I  show  it,  and  I  like  you.  Besides, 
there's  something  tells  me  there  is  a  bond  of 
sympathy  between  us  greater  than  between  ordinary 
strangers.  I  guess  it  is  because  we  are  both  en- 
gaged, both  so  young,  and  both  rather  pretty,  too. 
You  certainly  are,  and  I  know  I  am  not  bad  looking, 
if  Aunt  Theo.  did  use  to  try  and  make  me  think  I 
was.    Her  story  and  the  mirror's  did  not  agree." 

Anna  looked  up  amazed  at  this  frank  avowal, 
which  few  would  ever  have  made,  even  though  in 
their  hearts  they  were  far  vainer  of  their  beauty 
than  was  Mildred  Atherton  of  hers.  Was  she  really 
silly,  or  was  she  wholly  artless  and  childlike  in  her 
manner  of  expression  ?  Anna  could  not  decide, 
and  with  a  growing  interest  in  the  stranger,  she 
listened  while  Mildred  went  on  :  "  In  one  of  his 
letters   last  May  Herbert  said  so  much  of  Anna 

Burroughs,  with  her  eyes  of  blue  and  golden  hair, 
calling  her  a  '  Lily  of  the  Valley,'  and  asking,  all 
in  play,  you  know,  if  I  should  feel  very  badly  if  he 

should  elope  some  day  with  his  Lily.    It  shocks 


306 


MILDRED    A  THEE  TON 


you,  don't  it  I"  she  said,  as  Anna  started  with  a 
sudden  exclamation,  "  But  he  did  not  mean  it.  He 
only  tried  to  tease  me,  and  for  a  time  it  did  make 
in  my  heart  a  little  round  spot  of  pain  which  burned 
like  fire,  for  though  Herbert  has  some  bad  habits 
and  naughty  ways,  I  love  him  very  dearly.  He  is 
always  better  with  me.  He  says  I  do  him  good, 
though  he  calls  me  a  puritan,  and  that  time  when 
the  burning  spot  was  in  my  heart,  I  used  to  go  away 
and  pray,  that  if  Herbert  did  not  like  me  as  he 
ought,  God  would  incline  him  to  do  so.  Once  I 
prayed  for  you,  whom  I  had  never  seen,"  and  the 
little  soft  hand  stole  up  to  Anna's  bowed  head 
smoothing  the  golden  locks  caressingly,  "  You'll 
think  me  foolish,  but  thoughts  of  you  really  troubled 
me  then,  when  I  was  weak  and  nervous,  for  I  was 
just  recovering  from  sickness,  and  so  I  prayed  that 
the  Lily  of  the  Valley  might  not  care  for  Herbert, 
might  not  come  between  us,  and  I  know  God  heard 
me  just  as  well  as  if  it  had  been  my  own  father  of 
whom  I  asked  a  favor.  Perhaps  it  is  not  having 
any  father  or  mother  which  makes  me  take  every 
little  trouble  to  God.  Do  you  do  so,  Anna  ?  Do 
you  tell  all  your  cares  to  him 

Alas  for  conscience-stricken  Anna,  who  had  not 
prayed  for  so  very,  very  long  !    What  could  she 


MILDRED  ATEERTOK 


307 


say?  Nothing,  except  to  dash  the  bitter  tears  from 
her  eyes  and  answer,  sobbingly, 

"  I  used  to  do  so  once,  but  now — oh,  Miss 
Atherton  !  now  I  am  so  hard,  so  wicked,  I  dare  not 
pray  !" 

In  great  perplexity  Mildred  looked  at  her  a 
moment,  and  then  said,  sorrowfully. 

"Just  because  I  was  hard  and  wicked,  I  should 
want  to  pray — to  ask  that  if  I  had  done  anything 
bad  I  might  be  forgiven,  or  if  I  had  intended  to  do 
wrong,  I  might  be  kept  from  doing  it." 

Mildred  little  guessed  how  keen  a  pang  her 
words  "  or  intended  to  do  wrong  "  inflicted  upon  the 
repenting  Anna,  who  involuntarily  stretched  her 
hands  toward  the  young  girl  as  towards  something 
which,  if  she  did  but  grasp  it,  would  save  her  from 
herself.  Mildred  took  the  hands  between  her  own, 
and  pressing  them  gently,  said  : 

"  I  don't  know  why  you  feel  so  badly,  neither 
can  I  understand  how  anything  save  sin  can  make 
you  unhappy  when  that  good  man  is  almost  your 
husband.  You  must  love  him  very  much,  do  you 
not  r 

"  Yes,"  came  faintly  from  Anna's  lips,  and  lay- 
ing her  face  on  the  pillow  beside  Mildred's,  she 
murmured,  inaudibly :  "  God  help  me,  and  for- 


308 


MILDRED  ATHERTON. 


give  that  falsehood,  I  will  love  him,  if  I  do  not 
now." 

Anna  did  not  know  she  prayed,  but  He  who 
understands  our  faintest  desire  knew  it,  and  from 
that  moment  dated  her  return  to  duty.  She 
should  not  wrong  that  gentle,  trusting  girl.  She 
could  not  break  Milly's  heart  with  Adam's  as  break 
it  she  surely  should  if  her  wicked  course  were 
persisted  in.  And  then  there  flashed  upon  her  the 
conviction  that  Herbert  had  deceived  her  in  more 
ways  than  one.  He  had  represented  Mildred  as 
tiring  of  the  engagement  as  well  as  himself — had 
said  that  though  her  pride  might  be  a  little  wounded, 
she  would  on  the  whole  be  glad  to  be  rid  of  him  so 
easily,  and  all  the  while  he  knew  that  what  he  said 
was  false.  Would  he  deal  less  deceitfully  by  her 
when  the  novelty  of  calling  her  his  wife  had  worn 
away  ?  Would  he  not  weary  of  her  and  sigh  for  the 
victim  sacrificed  so  cruelly  ?  Anna's  head  and 
heart  both  seemed  bursting  with  pain,  and  when 
Mildred,  alarmed  at  the  pallor  of  her  face,  asked 
if  she  were  ill,  there  was  no  falsehood  in  the  reply, 
i:  Yes,  I'm  dizzy  and  faint — I  cannot  stay  here 
longer,"  and  scarcely  conscious  of  what  she  was 
doing,  Anna  quitted  ,  the  room,  leaning  for  support 
against  the  banisters  in  the  hall  and  almost  falling 


MILD  RED    A  TITER  TON. 


309 


against  old  Martha  who  was  carrying  hot  tea  to 
Mildred  Atherton. 

"  Let  me  go  home,  I  am  sick,"  Anna  whispered 
to  Adam,  who,  summoned  by  Martha,  bent  anxious- 
ly over  her,  asking  what  was  the  matter. 

It  was  too  late  to  go  home,  he  said.  She  must 
stay  there  till  morning  ;  and  very  tenderly  he  helped 
her  up  to  the  chamber  she  was  to  occupy,  the  one 
next  to  his  own,  and  from  which,  at  a  late  hour,  she 
heard  him,  as,  thinking  her  asleep,  he  thanked  his 
Heavenly  Father  for  giving  her  to  him,  and  asked 
that  he  might  be  more  worthy  of  her  than  he  was. 

"  No,  Adam,  oh,  no — pray  that  I  may  be  more 
worthy  of  you,"  trembled  on  Anna's  lips,  and  then 
lest  her  resolution  might  fail,  she  arose  and  strik- 
ing a  light,  tore  a  blank  leaf  from  a  book  lying  on  a 
table,  and  wrote  to  Herbert  Dunallen  that  she  could 
never  meet  him  again,  except  as  a  friend  and  the 
future  husband  of  Mildred  Atherton. 

Folding  it  once  over,  she  wrote  his  name  upon 
it,  then,  faint  with  excitement,  and  shivering  with 
cold,  threw  herself  upon  the  outside  of  the  bed,  and 
sobbed  herself  into  a  heavy  sleep,  more  exhausting 
in  its  effects  than  wakefulness  would  have  been. 


310 


THE   RESULT.  « 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  RESULT. 

HERE  was  another  patient  for  the  village 
doctor,  besides  Mildred,  at  the  cottage 
next  morning.  Indeed,  her  case  sank 
into  insignificance  when  compared  with 
that  of  the  moaning,  tossing,  delirious  Anna,  who 
shrank  away  from  Adam,  begging  him  not  to  touch 
her,  for  she  was  not  worthy. 

They  had  found  her  just  after  sunrise,  and  sent 
for  her  mother,  whose  first  thought  was  to  take  her 
home  ;  but  Anna  resisted  at  once  ;  she  must  stay 
there  she  said,  and  expiate  her  sin,  in  Adam's  house. 
Then,  looking,  into  her  mother's  face,  she  added 
with  a  smile, 

"  You  know  it  was  to  have  been  mine  in  a  week!" 
Adam  did  not  see  the  smile,    He  only  heard  the 
words,  and  his  heart  beat  quickly  as  he  thought  it 
natural  that  Anim  should  wish  to  stay  in  what  was 
to  be  her  home. 


THE  RESULT. 


311 


The  hot  August  sun  came  pouring  into  the 
small,  low  room  she  occupied,  making  it  so  uncom- 
fortable, that  Adam  said  she  must  be  moved,  and 
taking  her  in  his  arms  he  carried  her  down  the 
stairs,  and  laid  her  upon  the  bridal  bed,  whose 
snowy  drapery  was  scarcely  whiter  than  was  her 
face,  save  where  the  fever  burned  upon  her  fair  skin. 
On  the  carpet  where  it  had  fallen  he  found  the 
crumpled  note.  He  knew  it  was  her  writing,  and 
he  looked  curiously  at  the  name  upon  it,  while 
there  stole  over  him  a  shadowy  suspicion,  as  to  the 
cause  of  Anna's  recent  coldness. 

"  Herbert  Dunallen  !"  He  read  the  name  with 
a  shudder,  and  then  thrust  the  note  into  his  pocket 
until  the  young  man  came. 

Oh,  how  he  longed  to  read  the  note  and  know 
what  his  affianced  bride  had  written  to  Dunallen  ; 
but  not  for  the  world  would  he  have  opened  it,  and 
Anna's  secret  was  safe,  unless  she  betrayed  it  in  her 
delirium,  as  she  seemed  likely  to  do. 

A  messenger  had  been  dispatched  to  Castlewild, 
informing  its  young  heir  of  Mildred  Atherton's 
mishap.  In  the  room  he  called  his  library,  Herbert 
sat,  arranging  his  papers,  and  writing  some  direc- 
tions for  his  head  man  of  business. 

"  Something  from  Adam  Floyd,"  he  exclaimed, 


312 


THE  RESULT. 


as  he  tore  open  the  envelope,  "Oh,  bother,"  was  all 
the  comment  he  made,  as  he  read  the  hastily  written 
lines,  which  gave  no  hint  of  Anna's  sudden  illness. 

He  was  not  in  the  least  prepared  for  that,  and  the 
sudden  paling  of  his  cheek  when,  on  his  arrival  at  the 
cottage,  he  heard  of  it,  did  not  escape  the  watchful 
Adam,  who  quietly  handed  him  the  note,  explaining 
where  he  had  found  it,  and  then  went  back  to  Anna, 
in  whose  great  blue  eyes  there  was  a  look  of  fear 
whenever  they  met  his — a  look  which  added  to  the 
dull,  heavy  pain  gnawing  at  his  heart.  He  did  not 
see  Herbert  when  he  read  Anna's  note — did  not  hear 
his  muttered  curse  at  woman's  fickleness,  but  he 
saw  the  tiny  fragments  into  which  it  was  torn, 
flutter  past  the  window  where  he  sat  by  Anna's 
side.  One,  a  longer  strip  than  the  others,  fell  upon 
the  window  sill,  and  Adam  picked  it  up,  reading 
involuntarily  the  words  "  Your  unhappy  Anna." 

Down  in  the  depths  of  Adam's  heart  there  was  a 
sob,  a  moan  cf  anguish  as  his  fears  were  thus  cor- 
roborated, but  his  face  gave  no  token  of  the  fierce 
pain  within.  It  was  just  as  calm  as  ever,  when  it 
turned  again  to  Anna  who  was  talking  in  her  sleep, 
first  of  Herbert  and  then  of  Adam,  begging  him  to 
forget  that  he  ever  knew  the  little  girl  called  Anna 
Burroughs,  or  carried  her  over  the  rifts  of  snow  tc 


THE  RESULT. 


313 


the  school-house  under  the  hill.  It  seemed  strange 
that  she  should  grow  sick  so  fast  when  yesterday 
she  had  been  comparatively  well,  but  the  sudden 
cold  she  had  taken  the  previous  night,  added  to  the 
strong  excitement  under  which  she  had  been  labor- 
ing, combined  to  spend  the  energies  of  a  constitu- 
tion never  strong,  and  the  fever  increased  so  rapidly 
trmt  before  the  close  of  the  second  day  more  than 
one  heart  throbbed  with  fear  as  to  what  the  end 
would  be. 

In  spite  of  her  lame  ankle  Mildred  had  managed 
to  get  into  the  sick-room,  urging  Herbert  to  accom- 
pany her,  and  feeling  greatly  shocked  at  his  reply 
that  "camphor  and  medicine  were  not  to  his  taste." 

Herbert  had  not  greeted  his  bride  elect  very 
lovingly,  for  to  her  untimely  appearance  he  attrib- 
uted Anna's  illness  and  decision.  He  could  change 
the  latter  he  knew,  only  give  him  the  chance,  but 
the  former  troubled  him  greatly.  Anna  might  die, 
and  then — Herbert  Dunallen  did  not  know  what 
then,  but  bad  as  he  was  he  would  rather  she  should 
not  die  with  all  that  sin  against  Adam  unconfessed, 
and  out  in  the  Beech  woods  where  the  night  before 
he  had  planned  with  her  their  flight,  and  where  after 
leaving  Mildred  he  repaired,  he  laid  his  boyish  head 
upon  the  summer  grass  and  criedy  partly  as  a  child 


314 


THE  RESULT, 


would  cry  for  the  bauble  denied,  partly  as  an  honest 
man  might  mourn  for  the  loved  one  whose  life  he 
had  helped  to  shorten. 

Regularly  each  morning  the  black  pony  from 
Castlewild  was  tied  at  the  cottage  gate,  while  its 
owner  made  inquiry  for  Anna.  He  had  discern- 
ment enough  to  see  that  from  the  first  his  visits 
were  unwelcome  to  Adam  Floyd,  who  he  believed 
knew  the  contents  of  the  note  written  him  by  Anna. 
But  in  this  last  he  was  mistaken.  All  Adam  knew 
certainly  was  gathered  from  Anna's  delirious  rav- 
ings, which  came  at  last  to  be  understood  by 
Mildred,  who  in  spite  of  Mrs.  Judge  Harcourt's 
entreaties  or  those  of  her  tall,  handsome  son, 
George  Harcourt,  just  home  from  Harvard,  per- 
sisted in  staying  at  the  cottage  and  ministering  to 
Anna.  For  a  time  the  soft  black  eyes  of  sweet 
Mildred  Atherton  wrere  heavy  with  unshed  tears, 
while  the  sorrow  of  a  wounded,  deceived  heart  was 
visible  upon  her  face  ;  but  at  length  her  true 
womanly  sense  of  right  rose  above  it  all,  and  wak- 
ing as  if  from  a  dream  she  saw  how  utterly  un- 
worthy even  of  her  childish  love  was  the  boy  ma?zy 
whose  society  she  shunned,  until,  irritated  by  her 
manner,  he  one  day  demanded  an  explanation  of 
her  coolness. 


THE  RESULT. 


315 


"  You  know,  Herbert/'  and  Milly's  clear,  inno- 
cent eyes  looked  steadily  into  his.  "You  know  far 
better  than  I,  all  that  has  passed  between  you  and 
Anna  Burroughs.  To  me  and  her  lover,  noble 
Adam  Floyd,  it  is  known  only  in  part,  but  you  un- 
derstand the  whole,  and  I  am  glad  of  this  oppor- 
tunity to  tell  you  that  you  are  free  from  an  engage- 
ment which  never  should  have  been  made,  and  of 
which  you  are  weary.  I  did  love  you  so  much 
Herbert,  even  though  T  knew  that  you  were  way- 
ward. I  loved  you,  and  prayed  for  you,  too,  every 
morning  and  every  night.  I  shall  do  that  yet, 
wherever  you  are,  but  henceforth  we  are  friends, 
and  nothing  more.  Seek  forgiveness,  first  of  God, 
and  then  of  Adam  Floyd,  whom  you  thought  to 
wrong  by  wresting  from  him  the  little  ewe-lamb, 
which  was  his  all." 

Herbert  looked  up  quickly.  Wholly  unversed 
in  Scripture,  the  ewe-lamb  was  Greek  to  him,  but 
Mildred  was  too  much  in  earnest  for  him  to  jest. 
She  had  never  seemed  so  desirable  as  now,  that  he 
had  lost  her,  and  grasping  her  hand  from  which  she 
was  taking  the  engagement  ring,  he  begged  of  her 
to  wait,  to  consider,  before  she  cast  him  off. 

"  I  was  mean  with  Anna,  I  know,  and  I  meant  to 
run  away  with  her,  but  that  is  over  now.    Speak  to 


316 


THE  RESULT. 


me,  Milly  ;  I  do  not  know  you  in  this  new  char- 
acter." 

Milly  hardly  knew  herself,  but  with  regard  to 
Herbert  she  was  firm,  giving  him  no  hope  of  ever 
recovering  the  love  he  had  wantonly  thrown  away. 

After  that  interview,  the  black  pony  stayed 
quietly  in  its  stable  at  Castlewild,  while  Herbert 
shut  himself  up  in  his  room,  sometimes  crying  when 
he  thought  of  Anna,  sometimes  swearing  when  he 
thought  of  Mildred,  and  ending  every  reverie  with 
his  pet  words,  "  oh  botheration." 

Each  morning,  however,  a  servant  was  sent  to 
the  cottage  where,  for  weeks,  Anna  hovered  between 
life  and  death,  carefully  tended  by  her  mother  and 
Mildred  Atherton,  and,  tenderly  watched  by  Adam, 
who  deported  himself  toward  her  as  a  fond  parent 
would  toward  its  erring  but  suffering  child.  There 
was  no  bitterness  in  Adam's  heart,  nothing  save  love 
and  pity  for  the  white-faced  girl,  whom  he  held  firmly 
in  his  arms,  soothing  her  gently,  while  Mildred  cut 
away  the  long,  golden  tresses,  at  which,  in  her  wild 
moods,  she  clutched  so  angrily. 

"  Poor  shorn  lamb,"  he  whispered,  while  his 
tears,  large  and  warm,  dropped  upon  the  wasted 
face  he  had  not  kissed  since  the  night  he  and  Mil- 


THE  RESULT. 


317 


dred  watched  with  her  and  heard  so  much  of  the 
sad  story. 

But  for  the  help  which  cometh  only  from  on 
high,  Adam's  heart  would  have  broken,  those  long 
bright  September  days,  when  everything  seemed  to 
mock  his  woe.  It  was  so  different  from  what  he 
had  hoped  when  he  built  castles  of  the  Autumn  time, 
when  Anna  would  be  with  him.  She  was  there,  it 
is  true  ;  there  in  the  room  he  had  called  ours,  but 
was  as  surely  lost  to  him,  he  said,  as  if  the  bright- 
hued  flowers  were  blossoming  above  her  grave.  She 
did  not  love  him,  else  she  had  never  purposed  to 
deceive  him,  and  he  looked  drearily  forward  to  the 
time  when  he  must  again  take  up  his  solitary  life, 
uncheered  by  one  hope  in  the  future. 

She  awoke  to  consciousness  at  last.  It  was  in 
the  grey  dawn  of  the  morning,  when  Adam  was 
sitting  by  her,  while  her  mother  and  Mildred  rested 
in  the  adjoining  room.  Eagerly  she  seemed  to  be 
searching  for  something,  and  wrhen  Adam  asked  for 
what,  she  answered:  "The  note;  I  had  it  in  my 
hand  when  I  went  to  sleep." 

Bending  over  her,  Adam  said:  "1  found  it  ;  I 
gave  it  to  him." 

There  was  a  perceptible  start,  a  flushing  of 
Anna's  cheek  and  a  frightened,  half  pleading  look 


318 


THE  RESULT. 


in  her  eyes  ;  but  she  asked  no  questions,  and  think- 
ing she  would  rather  not' have  him  there,  Adam 
went  quietly  out  to  her  mother  with  the  good  news 
of  Anna's  consciousness. 

Days  went  by  after  that,  days  of  slow  convales- 
cence ;  but  now  that  he  was  no  longer  needed  in  the 
sick  room,  Adam  stayed  away.  Tokens  of  his 
thoughtful  care,  however,  were  visible  everywhere, 
in  the  tasteful  bouquets  arranged  each  morning,  just 
as  he  knew  Anna  liked  them — in  the  luscious  fruit 
and  tempting  delicacies  procured  by  him  for  the 
weak  invalid  who  at  last  asked  Mildred  to  call  him 
and  leave  them  alone  together. 

At  first  there  was  much  constraint  on  either  side, 
but  at  last  Anna  burst  out  impetuously,  "  Oh, 
Adam,  I  do  not  know  what  I  said  in  my  delirium, 
or  how  much  you  know,  and  so  I  must  tell  you 
everything." 

Then,  as  rapidly  as  possible  and  without  excus- 
ing herself  in  the  least,  she  told  her  story  and  what 
she  had  intended  to  do. 

For  a  moment  Adam  did  not  speak,  and  when  he 
did  it  was  to  ask  if  Mildred  had  told  her  about 
Herbert.  But  his  name  had  not  been  mentioned 
between  the  two  girls  and  thus  it  devolved  upon 
Adam  to  explain.  Herbert  had  left  the  neighbor- 


THE  BESULT. 


319 


hood  and  gone  abroad  immediately  after  Anna's 
convalescence  was  a  settled  thing. 

"  Perhaps  he  will  soon  come  back,"  Adam  said, 
and  Anna  cried,  "  Oh,  Adam,  I  never  wish  him  to 
return,  I  know  now  that  I  never  loved  him  as — I — 
oh,  I  wish  I  had  died." 

u  You  were  not  prepared,  and  God  spared  you 
to  us.  We  are  very  glad  to  have  you  back,"  Adam 
said. 

These  were  the  first  words  he  had  spoken  which 
had  in  them  anything  like  his  former  manner,  and 
Anna  involuntarily  stretched  her  hand  toward  him. 
He  took  it,  and  letting  it  rest  on  his  broad,  warm 
palm,  smoothed  it  a  little  as  he  would  have 
smoothed  a  little  child's,  but  what  Anna  longed  to 
hear  was  not  spoken,  and  in  a  tremor  of  pain  she 
sobbed  out, 

"  In  mercy,  speak  to  me  once  as  you  used  to. 
Say  that  you  forgive  me,  even  though -we  never  can 
be  to  each  other  again  what  we  have  been  !" 

"I  do  forgive  you,  Anna  ;  and  as  for  the  rest  I 
did  not  suppose  you  wished  it." 

Raising  herself  up,  Anna  threw  her  arms  impet- 
uously around  his  neck,  exclaiming, 

"  I  do  wish  it,  Adam.  Don't  cast  me  off.  Try 
me,  and  see  if  I  am  not  worthy.    I  have  sinned,  but 


320 


THE  BESULT. 


I  have  repented  too.  Never  were  you  so  dear  to 
me  !    Oh,  Adam,  take  me  back  !" 

She  was  getting  too  much  excited,  and  putting 
her  arms  from  his  neck,  Adam  laid  her  upon  the 
pillow,  and  said  to  her  gently, 

"  Anna,  my  faith  in  you  has  been  shaken,  but 
my  love  has  never  changed.  You  must  not  talk 
longer  now.  I'll  come  again  by  and  by,  and  mean- 
time I'll  send  Miss  Atherton.  She  knows  it  all, 
both  from  Herbert  and  yourself.  She  is  a  noble 
girl.    You  can  trust  her." 

At  Adam's  request  Mildred  went  to  Anna,  and 
sitting  down  beside  her,  listened  while  Anna  con- 
fessed the  past,  even  to  the  particulars  of  her  inter- 
view with  Adam,  and  then  added  tearfully, 

"  Forgive  me,  and  tell  me  what  to  do." 

"  I  should  be  an  unworthy  disciple  of  Him  who 
said  forgive,  until  seventy  times  seven,  if  I  refused 
your  request,"  was  Mildred's  reply,  as  she  wound 
her  arm  around  Anna's  neck,  and  imprinted  upon 
Anna's  Hps  the  kiss  of  pardon. 

Then,  as  Anna  could  bear  it,  she  unfolded  her 
plan,  which  was  that  the  invalid  should  return  with 
her  to  her  pleasant  home  at  Rose  Hill,  staying  there 
until  she  had  fully  tested  the  strength  of  her  love 
for  Adam,  who,  if  she  stood  the  test  should  come 


THE  RESULT. 


321 


for  her  himself.  As  a  change  of  air  and  scene 
seemed  desirable,  Anna's  mother  raised  no  serious 
objection  to  this  arrangement,  and  so  one  October 
morning  Adam  Floyd  held  for  a  moment  a  little 
wasted  hand  in  his  while  he  said  good-bye  to  its 
owner,  who  so  long  as  he  was  in  sight  leaned  from 
the  carriage  window  to  look  at  him  standing  there 
so  lone  and  solitary,  yet  knowing  it  was  better  to 
part  with  her  awhile,  if  he  would  have  their  future 
as  bright  as  he  had  once  fancied  it  would  be. 


Eight  years  have  passed  away,  and  on  the  broad 
piazza  of  Castlewild  a  sweet-faced  woman  stands, 
waiting  impatiently  the  arrival  of  the  carriage 
winding  slowly  up  the  hill,  and  which  stops  at  last, 
while  Mildred  Atherton  alights  from  it  and  ascends 
the  steps  to  where  Anna  stands  waiting  for  her. 
And  Mildred,  who  for  years  has  been  abroad,  and 
has  but  recently  returned  to  America,  has  come  to 
be  for  a  few  weeks  her  guest,  and  to  see  how  Anna 
deports  herself  as  the  wife  of  Adam  Floyd,  and 
mistress  of  beautiful  Castlewild. 

There  is  a  sad  story  connected  with  Anna's  being 
there  at  Castlewild,  a  story  which  only  Mildred  can 
tell,  and  in  the  dusky  twilight  of  that  first  evening 
when  Adam  was  away  and  the  baby  Milly  asleep  in 


322 


THE  RESULT. 


its  crib,  she  takes  Anna's  hand  in  hers  and  tells  her 
what  Anna  indeed  knew  before,  but  which  seems 
far  more  real  as  it  comes  from  Mildred's  lips, 
making  the  tears  fall  fast  as  she  listens  to  it.  Tells 
her  how  Providence  directed  her  to  the  room  in  a 
Paris  hotel,  where  a  fellow  countryman  lay  dying, 
alone  and  unattended  save  by  a  hired  nurse.  The 
sick  room  was  on  the  same  hall  with  her  own,  and 
in  passing  the  door  which  was  ajar,  she  was  startled 
to  hear  a  voice  once  familiar  to  her  and  which 
seemed  to  call  her  name.  Five  minutes  later  and 
she  was  sitting  by  Herbert  Dunallen's  bedside  and 
holding  his  burning  hands  in  hers,  while  he  told  her 
how  long  he  had  lain  there  with  the  fever  contracted 
in  the  south  of  France,  and  how  at  the  moment  she 
passed  his  door  he  was  crying  out  in  his  anguish 
and  desolation  for  the  friends  so  far  away,  and  had 
spoken  her  name,  not  knowing  she  was  so  near. 

After  that  Milly  was  his  constant  attendant,  and 
once  when  she  sat  by  him  he  talked  to  her  of  the 
past  and  of  Anna,  who  had  been  three  years  the  wife 
of  Adam  Floyd. 

"  I  am  glad  of  it,"  he  said.  "  She  is  happier 
with  him  than  she  could  have  been  with  me.  I  am 
sorry  that  I  ever  came  between  them,  it  was  more 
my  fault  than  hers,  and  I  have  told  Adam  so.  I 


THE  RESULT. 


323 


wrote  him  from  Algiers  and  asked  his  forgiveness, 
and  he  answered  my  letter  like  the  noble  man  he  is. 
There  is  peace  between  us  now,  and  I  am  glad.  I 
have  heard  from  him,  or  rather  of  him  since,  in  a 
roundabout  away.  He  lost  his  right  arm  in  the 
war,  and  that  will  incapacitate  him  from  his  work. 
He  can  never  use  the  hammer  again.  I  do  not  sup- 
pose he  has  so  very  much  money.  Anna  liked 
Castlewild.  In  fact  I  believe  she  cared  more  for 
that  than  for  me,  and  I  have  given  it  to  her ; — have 
made  my  will  to  that  effect.  It  is  with  my  other 
papers,  and  Milly,  when  I  am  dead,  you  will  see  that 
Anna  has  her  own.  I  did  not  think  it  would  come 
quite  so  soon,  for  I  am  young  to  die.  Not  thirty 
yet,  but  it  is  better  so,  perhaps.  You  told  me  that 
you  prayed  for  me  every  day,  and  the  memory  of 
that  has  stuck  to  me  like  a  burr,  till  I  have  prayed 
for  myself,  more  than  once,  when  I  was  well,  arvd 
often  since  shut  up  in  this  room  which  I  shall  never 
leave  alive.  Stay  by  me,  Milly,  to  the  last  ;  it  will 
not  be  long,  and  pray  that  if  I  am  not  right,  God 
will  make  me  so.  Show  me  the  way,  Milly,  I  want 
to  be  good,  I  am  sorry,  oh,  so  sorry  for  it  all." 

For  a  few  days  longer  he  lingered,  and  then  one 
lovely  autumnal  morning,  when  Paris  was  looking 
14* 


324 


TEE  RESULT. 


her  brightest,  he  died,  with  Milly's  hand  in  his,  and 
Milly's  tears  upon  his  brow. 

And  so  Castlewild  came  to  Anna,  who  had  been 
three  years  its  mistress  when  Milly  came  to  visit 
her,  and  on  whose  married  life  no  shadow  however 
small  had  fallen,  except,  indeed,  the  shadows  which 
are  common  to  the  lives  of  all.  When  her  husband 
came  home  from  the  war  a  cripple,  as  he  told  her  with 
quivering  lips,  her  tears  fell  like  rain  for  him,  because 
he  was  sorry,  but  for  herself  she  did  not  care  ;  he 
was  left  to  her,  and  kissing  him  lovingly  she  prom- 
ised to  be  his  right  arm  and  to  work  for  him  if 
necessary,  even  to  building  houses,  if  he  would 
teach  her  how.  But  poverty  never  came  to  Adam 
Floyd  and  Anna,  and  probably  neyer  would  have 
come,  even  if  there  had  been  no  will  which  left 
them  Castlewild.  That  was  a  great  surprise,  and  at 
first  Adam  hesitated  about  going  there.  But  Anna 
persuaded  him  at  last,  and  there  we  leave  them,  per- 
fectly happy  in  each  other's  love,  and  both  the  better, 
perhaps,  for  the  grief  and'pain  which  came  to  them 
in  their  youth. 

THE  END 
OF 

ADAM  FLOYD. 


JOHN  LOGAN'S  THOUGHTS  ABOUT 
REPAIRING  OLD  HOUSES. 


Y  wife  was  Priscilla  Lord,  daughter  of  the 
Hon.  Erastus  Lord,  but  I  always  call  her 
Cilly  for  short,  and  she  rather  likes  that 
pet  name,  inasmuch  as  it  is  not  spelled 
with  an  S.  We  had  been  married  and  kept  house 
ten  years,  and  it  had  never  occurred  to  me  that  we 
were  not  as  comfortable,  and  cozy,  and  happy  as 
our  neighbors,  until  one  Saturday  night  in  the 
month  of  May,  when  I  was  superintending  the  pack- 
ing of  my  shirts,  and  socks,  and  neckties,  prepara- 
tory to  a  business  trip  which  I  was  to  make  for  the 
firm  which  employed  me,  and  which  was  to  last  four 
weeks  positively,  if  not  longer.  Then,  after  sewing 
on  the  last  button,  and  darning  the  last  sock,  and 
wondering  why  men  always  wore  out  their  heels 

[325] 


326  LOGAN'S  THOUGHTS. 

and  toes  so  fast,  Cilly  suddenly  informed  me  that 
we  were  neither  cozy  nor  comfortable,  nor  respecta- 
ble, in  the  present  condition  of  things. 

I  was  taking  off  my  boots,  and  sat  staring  at  her 
with  one  uplifted  in  the  air,  while  she  went  on  to 
say  that  the  view  from  our  bedroom  was  just  horrid, 
looking  out  upon  nothing  but  a  lane,  and  a  board 
fence,  and  Mrs  Patterson's  kitchen — that  we  had  no 
china  closet  proper  at  all,  which  was  a  shame  for 
people  of  our  means — that  we  had  to  pass  through 
the  dining  room  to  go  down  cellar,  which  was  a 
great  inconvenience — that  we  had  no  conservatory, 
and  the  bay  window  was  always  crowded  with 
plants  in  the  winter,  giving  a  littered  appearance  to 
the  room — that  the  west  piazza  was  altogether  too 
short  a  walk  for  her  mother,  who  had  lived  with  us 
for  the  past  year,  and  who  needed  a  longer  prome- 
nade, especially  in  bad  weather.  And  she  continued 
to  inform  me  further  that  there  was  space  for  such 
a  nice  room  in  the  attic,  which  we  really  needed  in 
the  summer  when  the  house  was  full,  and  Lizzie  was 
there  with  all  her  children  and  the  nurse. 

I  liked  Lizzie,  and  liked  the  children,  and  liked 
to  have  them  with  us,  especially  as  there  were  no 
little  Logans  of  my  own  playing  in  the  yard;  but 
I  thought  three  spare  rooms  ought  to  be  enough  for 


LOGAN'S  THOUGHTS. 


327 


them,  until  I  reflected  that  my  mother  in-law,  Mrs. 
Erastus  Lord,  now  occupied  one  of  the  spare  rooms, 
leaving  a  surplus  of  only  two,  so  I  still  kept  silent 
until  Cilly,  thinking  she  had  succeeded  in  convinc- 
ing me  that  of  all  tucked-up,  inconvenient,  disrep- 
utable houses  in  town,  ours  was  the  worst,  went  on 
to  say  that  she  thought  and  her  mother  thought,  and 
her  grandma  thought,  (grandma  was  the  old  Mrs. 
Lord  of  all,  Mrs.  Erastus,  senior,)  that  we  ought  to 
"  go  through  a  set  of  repairs  ;"  I  think  that's  the  way 
she  worded  it,  and  as  brother  John  had  left  her  two 
thousand  dollars  "to  do  just  exactly  what  she  pleased 
with  "  she  had  made  up  her  mind  to  repair,  and  was 
going  to  do  it  while  I  was  away,  so  as  to  save  me  all 
the  trouble  of  the  muss,  and — and — Cilly  got  a 
little  confused  here  and  stammered  a  good  deal,  and 
finally  went  on  rapidly  :  "  You  see,  I  have  quite 
decided,  and  mother  has  seen  the  men,  and  they  are 
coming  Monday  morning,  and  it  will  all  be  done 
beautifully  before  you  get  back,  and  you'll  never 
know  the  old  hut  at  all." 

I  felt  a  little  hurt  to  hear  her  stigmatize,  as  the 
old  hut,  what  we  had  thought  so  pretty  and  nice 
when  we  took  possession  of  it  ten  years  ago,  but 
had  no  time  to  protest  before  she  added  : 

"I  didn't  mean  to  tell  you,  as  I  wished  to  see 


828 


LOGAN'S  THOUGHTS. 


how  surprised  you  would  be  when  you  returned  ; 
but  I  was  afraid  something  might  happen,  the  car- 
penters get  sick,  or  you  come  home  sooner  than  you 
intended,  and  so  I  had  to  tell  you.  See,  here  is  the 
plan.  I  had  an  architect  come  and  make  it  the  day 
you  were  in  New  York.  Isn't  it  lovely,  and  such  an 
improvement  ?" 

I  looked  at  the  paper  which  she  held  toward  me, 
and  saw  on  it  a  drawing  which  reminded  me  of  one 
of  the  boats  of  the  White  Star  Line,  it  was  so  long 
and  narrow,  with  chimneys  and  smoke-stacks  and 
gables  jutting  out  everywhere. 

"Don't  you  like  it  John?"  Cilly  asked,  with  a 
most  rueful  face,  and  I  replied  : 

"  Why,  yes,  I  dare  say  it  is  nice,  but  you  see  I 
haven't  the  least  bit  of  building  genius,  and  less 
imagination,  so  I've  no  idea  what  it's  to  be." 

"  Why,  John,  what  a  stupid  ;  that's  the  new 
piazza,  and  maybe  the  front  door  will  have  to  be 
moved,  and  that's  the  new  gable,  and  that's  the 
conservatory,  and  here  is  our  room  right  over  the 
kitchen." 

"Over  the  kitchen!"  and  I  involuntarily  sniffed 
as  I  thought  of  onions,  and  codfish,  and  boiled  cab- 
bage, each  one  of  which  was  a  favorite  dish  of  mine, 


LOGAN'S  THOUGHTS. 


329 


though  I  did  not  like  the  smell  in  my  sleeping 
room. 

Cilly  understood  my  meaning  and  hastened  to 
say  : 

"  Oh,  we  have  fixed  all  that ;  there's  to  be  deafen- 
ing, a  double  floor  and  a  whole  lot  of  mortar,  and 
we  shall  never  hear  a  sound  nor  smell  a  smell,  Jane 
is  so  quiet  ;  and  it  will  be  so  pleasant  with  a  broad 
balcony  and  a  door  to  go  out.  I  wish  you  would 
try  to  have  a  little  interest  in  it,  John." 

So  I  tried  to  be  interested,  but  could  not  forbear 
asking  her  if  she  had  the  slightest  conception  of  all 
it  involved,  this  raising  the  roof  and  Cain  generally  ; 
and  then  she  cried,  and  the  Lord  part  of  her  got  the 
ascendant,  and  she  said  I  was  mean,  and  an  old  fogy, 
and  a  conservative,  and  a — well,  she  called  me  several 
names,  and  then  we  made  it  up,  and  I  told  her  to 
fix  away,  and  knock  things  endways  if  she  wanted 
to,  and  that's  about  the  way  matters  stood  Monday 
morning,  when  I  said  good-bye  to  her  at  half-past 
six  and  hurried  to  the  train.  She  was  up  to  see  me 
off,  the  carpenters  were  coming  at  seven,  and  she 
must  be  ready  to  receive  them. 

"  You  won't  know  the  house  when  you  get 
home,"  she  said,  "  it  will  be  so  changed  and  im- 
proved ;  and  if  you  are  at  all  puzzled  to  find  it, 


330 


L  0  GAN  '8    THO  UGHTS. 


look  for  the  very  biggest  and  handsomest  place  on 
the  street.    Good  by." 

She  was  so  elated  with  her  repairing  that  I  do 
not  think  she  was  a  bit  sorry  to  have  me  go,  and 
this  did  not  console  me  much,  or  make  me  take  any 
more  kindly  to  the  repairs.  I  did  not  hear  from 
her  for  three  or  four  days,  and  then  she  was  in  high 
spirits.  Such  nice  men  as  the  carpenters  were,  and 
such  fun  to  superintend  them  :  she  began  to  think 
nature  had  intended  her  for  a  builder,  or  at  least  a 
designer  of  houses. 

I  groaned  a  little  for  fear  my  hitherto  quiet, 
satisfied  Cilly  should  develope  a  propensity  for 
building,  and  ruin  me  entirely.  It  was  in  her  family 
on  both  sides,  for  old  Mrs.  Erastus  Lord  had  ruined 
her  husband  that  way,  while  Mrs.  Erastus,  junior, 
had  sunk  over  twenty  thousand  dollars  on  a  place 
which  originally  cost  five  thousand,  and  which 
when  completed  looked  as  if  it  had  been  taken  up 
and  shaken  by  a  high  wind  and  thrown  down  pro- 
miscuously. But  T  hoped  better  things  of  my  little 
Cilly,  and  resuming  her  letter,  read  that  the  piazza 
was  going  up  so  fast,  and  they  had  not  yet  done  a 
single  bit  of  damage,  except  to  knock  a  hole  through 
one  of  the  front  door  lights,  and  kill  the  ivy,  which 


LOGAN'S  THOUGHTS. 


331 


was  just  growing  so  beautifully,  and  which  had 
come  all  the  way  from  Kenilworth. 

The  next  letter  was  not  quite  so  hilarious  and 
assured,  though  Cilly  was  still  hopeful  and  plucky, 
notwithstanding  that  four  windows  had  been  broken, 
and  the  arm  of  my  Apollo  Belvidere,  which  I  had 
bought  in  Florence,  and  a  whole  lot  of  plaster,  had 
fallen  from  the  ceiling  of  the  room  where  she  was 
sitting,  and  a  man's  leg  came  right  through,  lathing 
and  all.  I  think  the  leg  disturbed  her  more  than 
all  the  other  mishaps,  though  her  mother  told  her 
it  was  nothing  at  all  to  what  she  must  expect,  but 
she  didn't  think  it  was  nice,  and  it  was  such  a  muss 
to  have  four  carpenters,  three  masons,  two  tinners, 
three  painters,  besides  a  boy  to  lath,  and  a  man  to 
clean  up,  and  the  two  thousand  dollars  would  not 
begin  to  pay  for  it  all,  and  I  must  make  some 
arrangemens,  whereby  she  could  get  some  more 
money,  and  if  I  could  she'd  like  me  to  stay  away  as 
long  as  possible,  not  that  she  did  not  miss  me 
awfully,  and  the  days  seemed  a  month  each,  but  she 
did  want  the  house  done  before  I  returned,  and  it 
went  on  so  slowly,  though  mother  said  they  were 
the  best  workmen  she  ever  saw. 

This  was  the  substance  of  Cilly 's  letter,  and  I  did 
not  hear  from  her  again  except  a  few  hurried  lines 


332 


LOGAN'S    THO  UGHTS. 


saying  she  was  well,  and  the  house  progressing,  and 
both  drains  stopped  up,  and  a  chimney  blown 
down,  and  the  hard  finish  in  one  of  the  rooms 
spoiled  by  the  rain  which  beat  in  just  as  they  got 
the  eaves-trough  off.  This  was  about  as  I  had  ex- 
pected it  would  be,  but  I  was  sorry  for  Cilly,  and 
sorry  that  my  business  kept  me  away  from  her  six 
weeks  instead  of  four,  as  I  had  at  first  proposed. 
But  the  day  came  at  last  for  me  to  go  home,  and  I 
almost  counted  the  minutes,  until  there  came  a  whiz 
and  a  crash,  and  we  were  off  the  track,  with  baggage 
car  smashed  but  nobody  hurt.  This  made  it  very 
late,  midnight  in  fact,  when  we  reached  Morrisville, 
and,  valise  in  hand,  I  stepped  out  upon  the  platform. 
It  was  the  darkest  night  I  think,  I  ever  knew,  and 
the  rain  was  falling  in  torrents.  Fortunately,  how- 
ever, there  was  a  solitary  cab  in  waiting,  and  I  took 
it  and  bade  the  negro  drive  me  to  No.  —  Guelph 
street.  But  he  was  a  stranger  in  the  place,  and 
stared  at  me  stupidly  until  I  explained  where 
Guelph  street  was,  and  then  remembering  what 
Cilly  had  said  about  looking  for  the  handsomest 
and  largest  house,  bade  him  drive  to  the  best  and 
most  stylish  house  in  the  street,  if  he  knew  which 
that  was. 

44  Yes,  sar,  I  done  knows  now/'  and  with  a  grin 


LOGAN'S  THOUGHTS. 


333 


he  banged  the  door,  mounted  his  box  and  drove  me 
somewhere,  and  I  alighted,  paid  my  fare,  and  heard 
him  depart,  for  I  could  not  see  him,  or  the  house 
either,  except  with  the  eye  of  faith,  but  of  course  it 
was  mine,  and  I  groped  my  way  through  the  gate 
and  up  to  the  front  door,  to  which  I  tried  to  fit  my 
night-key,  in  vain,  and  after  fumbling  awhile  at  the 
key  hole,  and  trying  a  shutter  to  see  if  it  was  unfas- 
tened, I  was  hunting  for  the  bell  knob,  when  sud- 
denly a  window  from  above  was  opened  ;  there  was 
a  clicking  sound,  and  then  the  sharp  ring  of  a  pistol 
broke  the  midnight  stillness  I  was  not  hit,  but  a 
good  deal  scared,  and  yelled  out  : 

"  For  Heaven's  sake,  Cilly,  what  do  you  mean  by 
firing  away  at  a  chap  like  this  ?" 

"  John  Logan,  is  that  you  ?  We  thought  it  was 
a  burglar.  What  are  you  here  for?"  some  one 
called  from  the  window,  while  at  the  same  moment 
the  gas  flashed  up  in  the  hall  and  showed  me  where 
I  was. 

Not  at  my  house  at  all,  but  at  the  large  boarding 
house  at  the  upper  end  of  the  street,  kept  by  a  dash- 
ing grass  widow.  Hastily  explaining  my  mistake, 
I  said  good  night  to  Bob  Sawyer,  one  of  the 
boarders,  whose  loud  laugh  discomfited  me  some- 


334 


LOO  AN '8  THOUGHTS. 


what  as  I  felt  my  way  into  the  street  and  started  to- 
ward home. 

This  time  I  was  sure  I  was  right  by  the  trees  near 
the  gate,  but  the  front  door  was  gone — moved,  and 
not  wishing  to  venture  into  unknown  regions,  I 
concluded  to  try  the  bath-room  door,  for  our  rooms 
were  adjoining  it,  and  I  could  easily  speak  to  Cilly 
without  alarming  her.  So  I  tried  it,  and  after 
floundering  over  piles  of  rubbish,  and  tearing  my 
tronsers  on  broads  full  of  nails,  and  plunging  up  to 
my  knees  in  what  seemed  to  be  a  muddy  ditch,  and 
which  smelled  awfully,  I  suddenly  found  myself 
plump  in  the  cistern,  with  the  water  up  to  my  chin  ; 
at  the  same  time  I  heard  a  succession  of  feminine 
shrieks,  conspicuous  among  which  was  Cilly's  voice, 
crying  out  : 

u  Oh,  we  shall  all  be  murdered.  It  is  a  burglar. 
Throw  something  at  him." 

And  they  did  throw — first  a  soap  dish,  then  the 
poker,  them  the  broom,  and  lastly  a  pair  of  my  old 
boots. 

"Cilly,  Cilly  !"  I  screamed;  "are  you  mad? 
It's  I,  John,  drowning  in  the  cistern. " 

Then  such  a  Babel  as  ensued  ;  such  a  scrambling 
down  stairs,  and  opening  of  doors,  and  thrusting 
out  of  tallow  candles  into  the  darkness.    But  I  was 


LOGAN'S  THOUGHTS. 


335 


out  of  the  cistern  by  this  time,  and,  wet  as  a  drowned 
rat,  confronted  Cilly  in  her  night-gown  and  crimp 
ing-pins,  and  asked  her  "  What  the  deuse  was  up  V 

"  Oh,  John!"  she  sobbed;  "  everything  is  ftp; 
the  drain,"  (that  explained  the  smell),  "  the  floor, 
and  the  pump,  and  the  walk,  and  I've  had  such  a 
dreadful  time,  and  mother's  down  with  the  rheuma- 
tism, and  Jane  has  sprained  her  ankle,  and  Mary  has 
gone,  and  I  have  got  such  a  cold,  and  the  town  is 
full  of  burglars,  and  I  thought  you  were  one,  and  I 
wish  we  hadn't  repaired,  it's  all  so  nasty  and  awful." 

The  next  day,  which  was  Sunday,  I  had  ample 
time  to  survey  the  premises.  There  was  a  double 
piazza  on  three  sides,  which  was  an  improvement  ; 
but  the  hall  door  was  changed,  which  wasn't.  Then 
the  little  conservatory,  hitched  on  to  the  double  bay 
window,  which  looked  like  its  father,  was  doubtful. 
But  all  this  was  nothing  to  the  confusion  which 
reigned  at  the  back  of  the  house  ;  I  only  marveled 
that  I  had  not  broken  my  neck.  The  walk  was  up, 
the  drain  was  up,  the  pump  was  up,  the  pipes  were 
up,  the  cistern  floor  was  up,  and  the  kitcken  roof 
was  up,  as  well,  looming  into  the  sky,  but  the  room 
was  far  from  being  finished. 

Nothing  had  worked  as  she  hoped  it  would, 
Cilly  said,  and  everything  went  wrong,  especially 


336 


L  0  GAN  '£    THO  TIGHTS. 


the  eaves-troughs,  and  conductors,  and  pipes,  and 
it  always  rained  just  at  the  wrong  time,  and  the 
cellar  filled  with  water,  and  everything  floated  like 
a  boat,  and  the  plastering  canie  down  on  the  stove 
when  Jane  was  getting  dinner,  and  the  soot  came 
down  from  the  chimney  on  Mary's  clean  clothes, 
and  just  as  she  got  them  all  washed  again  and  hung 
out,  they  came  with  a  lot  of  lumber  and  she  had  to 
take  them  down,  and  things  got  so  bad  that  she  left 
in  disgust,  and  Jane  had  fallen  into  the  drain  and 
sprained  her  ankle,  and  mother  was  sick  in  bed,  and 
the  carpets  all  up,  and,  worse  than  all,  the  Dunnings 
were  coming  next  week  from  New  York,  and  it  was 
more  than  Cilly  could  bear. 

Of  course,  I  told  her  I'd  help  her  bear  it,  and  I 
put  my  shoulder  to  the  wheel  and  wrote  to  the 
Dunnings  to  defer  their  visit,  and  began  to  investi- 
gate matters,  which  I  found  had  become  a  little 
loose,  to  say  the  least  of  it.  The  men  were  good 
enough  and  faithful  enough,  and  the  troubles  Cilly 
had  encountered  were  only  the  troubles  incident 
upon  repairing  any  old  house,  a  job  which  is  quite 
as  trying  to  one's  patience,  and  as  exasperating  as 
putting  up  a  stove  pipe  when  no  one  joint  fits 
another,  particularly  the  elbows,  and  the  result  is 
that  new  pipe  is  almost  always  bought  to  take  the 


LOGAN'S  THOUGHTS. 


337 


place  of  the  old.  So  with  our  house  ;  nothing  was 
right,  nothing  would  do  again.  No  matter  how 
good  or  how  long  the  piece  of  conductor,  or  lead 
pipe,  or  bit  of  siding  or  floor,  it  would  not  fit,  and  it 
went  to  swell  the  pile  of  rubbish  which,  in  our  back 
yard  was  almost  mountain  high,  and  reminded  me 
of  the  excavations  in  Rome,  when  I  first  looked  out 
upon  the  debris  that  dreary  Sunday  morning.  But 
Monday  showed  a  better  state  of  things.  I  saw  that 
the  open  drain  and  cistern  hurt  Cilly  the  most,  and 
so  I  had  them  closed  up  first  and  then  plunged  into 
the  midst  of  the  repairing,  myself,  and  was  aston- 
ished to  find  how  rapidly  I  began  to  develop  a  talent 
for  the  business.  I  believe,  after  all,  there  is  some- 
thing exhilarating  in  the  smell  of  fresh  plaster,  and 
something  exciting  in  walking  over  piles  of  old 
lath,  and  bits  of  broken  siding,  and  base  boards,  and 
moldings,  and  matched  stuff,  and  so  on  through  the 
whole  list  of  terms  in  a  carpenter's  vocabulary.  I 
came  to  know  them  all,  from  mitering  to  nosing, 
though  I  never  rightly  made  out  the  orthography 
of  that  last  word  or  its  derivation  either,  but  I  knew 
just  what  it  was,  and  was  great  on  a  squint  to  see  if 
things  were  square  or  plumb,  as  Billy  called  it,  and 
I  think  I  made  them  change  one  window  three 
times,  and  a  certain  door  twice.  What  a  propensity 
15 


238 


L  0  GAN  '£    THG  TIGHT S. 


they  did  have  for  getting  things  wrong,  that  is,  ac- 
cording to  my  ideas,  and  poor  Cilly  had  been  driven 
nearly  crazy  with  windows  just  where  she  did 
not  want  them,  and  doors  opening  against  her 
furniture.  Then,  too,  she  informed  me,  she  began 
to  suspect  that  the  men  thought  she  was  strong- 
minded,  and  wanted  to  vote,  because  she  super- 
intended them,  and  was  always  in  the  thickest  of  it, 
and  exactly  in  their  way.  Whether  they  liked 
masculine  rule  bettei,  I  never  heard.  I  only  know 
that  they  all  worked  well  and  faithfully,  and  they 
certainly  did  get  on  faster  when  they  were  not 
obliged  to  pull  down  one  day  what  they  had  done 
the  day  before.  This  had  been  Cilly' s  method  of 
procedure,  aided  and  abetted  by  her  mother,  whom 
the  men  stigmatized  as  "  the  old  one,"  and  who  spied 
upon  them  from  every  keyhole,  and  came  unex- 
pectedly upon  them  from  every  corner.  She  was 
disabled  now,  and  could  only  issue  daily  bulletins 
to  which  I  paid  no  heed,  and  so  the  repairs  went  on, 
and  just  three  months  after  the  first  nail  was  driven 
the  last  man  departed,  and  we  went  to  work  setting 
to  rights,  which  would  have  been  delightful  busi- 
ness, if  only  we  could  have  found  our  things,  but 
everything  was  lost  or  mislaid.  Curtain  fixtures 
were  gone  ;  door  keys  were  gone  ;  stair  rods  were 


LOGAN'S  THOUGHTS. 


339 


missing  ;  screw  drivers  and  tack-hammers  could 
not  be  found  ;  wood-saw  broken  ;  both  trowels 
lost  ;  water  pails  full  of  plaster,  and  all  the  brooms 
in  the  house  spoiled,  to  say  nothing  of  the  dusters 
and  dust  pans  broken,  and  dippers  lost. 

But  then,  we  had  a  double  piazza,  and  a  place 
for  flowers,  and  a  china  closet  so  big  that  I  had  to 
spend  a  hundred  dollars  to  fill  it,  and  our  bed-room 
has  two  arches  over  the  south  windows,  and  a  raised 
platform  behind  them,  and  we  have  each  of  us  a 
bureau  in  a  dressing  room  which  looks  like  a  long 
hall,  and  I  have  four  drawers  all  to  myself  for  my 
shirts  and  neckties,  and  a  quarter  of  a  closet,  and 
there  are  east  windows  and  south  windows,  which 
make  it  so  bright  in  the  morning  that  the  flies  bite 
me  awfully,  and  we  had  to  buy  a  mosquito  net  to 
keep  them  off,  and  instead  of  being  disturbed  by 
Mrs.  Patterson's  pump,  and  looking  into  nothing 
but  her  back-yard  and  kitchen,  we  now  look  into 
Mrs.  Alling's  barn-yard,  with  a  most  unsightly 
corn-crib  in  the  center  of  it,  and  Mrs.  Alling's 
roosters  have  a  bad  habit  of  crowing  every  hour, 
while  at  about  three  or  four  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
the  noise  is  so  terrible,  that  I  believe  her  hens  crow 
too. 

But  Cilly  likes  that — it  sounds  rural  and  like 


840 


L  0  GAN  '8    THO  UGETS. 


the  country;  and  our  room  is  lovely,  with  the 
two  broad  balconies  where  we  sometimes  have  tea, 
when  the  west  wind  is  not  too  strong,  the  sun  too 
hot,  or  the  mosquitoes  too  thick.  Then  it  is  such  a 
nice  place  to  smoke,  but  Cilly  never  lets  me  do  that 
any  more  ;  she  only  smiles  so  sweetly  on  her  gentle- 
men friends,  and  tells  them  it's  a  nice  place,  that  I 
am  tempted  to  try  it  sometimes  surreptitiously,  when 
she  and  her  mother  are  down  town  at  sotne  of  the 
temperance  meetings,  but  her  mother  would  smell 
me  a  mile  off,  and  so  I  forbear. 

Honestly,  though,  I  do  enjoy  the  balconies, 
and  I  rather  like  the  arches  over  the  windows,  which 
I  call  the  twins,  and  which  are  very  pretty.  They 
ought  to  be,  for  they  cost  enough.  I've  never  told 
Cilly  just  how  much  I  paid,  besides  her  brother's 
windfall,  but  when  the  greedy  assessors  tucked  an 
extra  four  thousand  on  our  house  because  of  the 
improvements,  I  wondered  how  they  guessed  so  ac- 
curately. 

We  have  five  spare  rooms  now,  but  the  new  one 
in  the  attic,  which  was  built  for  Lizzie's  children 
and  the  nurse,  has  never  been  occupied.  The  nurse 
is  afraid  to  sleep  there,  you  have  to  pass  through 
such  a  menagerie  of  trunks,  and  broken  chairs,  and 
rag  bags,  and  old  hoop  skirts,  and  cast  off  pants,  and 


L  0  GAN  '8    THO  UGHT8. 


341 


last  year's  bonnets,  to  get  to  it,  that  it  gives  her  the 
horrors,  and  as  the  children  will  not  sleep  without 
her,  that  room  was  made  for  nothing  except  to 
show. 

Mrs.  Erastus  Lord,  senior,  is  dead,  and  Cilly  was 
very  sorry,  when  she  died,  and  I  suppose  I  wras 
sorry,  too  ;  and  I  know  I  was  glad  when  Mrs. 
Erastus,  junior,  recovered  the  use  of  her  limbs,  and 
sailed  away  to  Europe,  where  she  finds  the  manners 
and  customs  more  congenial  to  her  taste  than  here. 

Cilly  and  I  live  very  quietly  together  now,  and  I 
do  not  believe  she  has  any  thought  of  repairing 
again,  though  she  has  told  me  in  confidence  that  the 
next  time  she  does  so,  she  means  to  stow  the  furni- 
ture in  the  barn,  and  knock  the  plaster  off  from  all 
the  old  walls,  which  were  so  badly  cracked  when 
the  house  was  fixed  the  last  time  ;  but  w7ien  she 
actually  gets  to  that  point,  as  true  as  my  is 
John  Logan,  I'll  lock  her  up  in  a  lunatu.  asylum 
and  then  commit  suicide. 


THE    PASSION  PLAY 


AT  OBERAMMERGAU,  1880. 


E  have  seen  the  great  Passion  Play,  and 
the  day  is  nearly  over  which  we  have 
anticipated  so  long,  and  to  which  every 
plan  has  been  made  subservient,  since  we 
crossed  the  ocean.  And  now,  while  the  streets  are 
full  of  people  and  the  twilight  shadows  are  falling 
over  Mt.  Kofel,  where  the  tall  cross  shows  so  con- 
spicuously, I  sit  down  to  write  my  impressions  of 
the  wonderful  drama,  which,  during  the  summer, 
has  attracted  nearly  100,000  visitors  to  this  little, 
quiet,  old-fashioned  town,  among  the  hills  of 
Bavaria.  The  high  and  the  low,  the  rich  and  the 
poor,  the  titled  lord  and  the  lowly  peasant  meet 
here  together,  jostling  side  by  side,  sharing  the  same 
fatigue  and  discomfort,  and  deeming  neither  too 
[342] 


THE  PASSION  PLAT. 


343 


great  a  price  to  pay  for  the  object  they  have  in 
view. 

Before  speaking  of  the  play  in  detail,  it  may  not 
be  out  of  place  to  say  something  of  the  way  to  reach 
Oberammergau,  and  of  the  town  itself  ;  and  so,  first, 
the  journey  there. 

Nearly  all  the  Americans  and  English  who  visit 
Oberammergau,  make  Munich  their  starting-point  ; 
consequently  the  city  is  at  this  season  crowded  to 
its  utmost  capacity,  and  reminds  one  of  Philadel- 
phia during  the  Centennial.  Naturally  a  great  deal 
of  anxiety  is  felt  by  the  tourist  with  regard  to  his 
pilgrimage  to  the  valley  of  the  Ammer,  especially 
as  he  hears  such  exaggerated  accounts  of  the  diffi- 
culties to  be  encountered  on  the  way,  and  he  is  at 
times  half  tempted  to  give  it  up  as  something  unat- 
tainable. When  we  reached  Munich,  on  Friday, 
August  20th,  and  made  inquiries  at  our  hotel  as  to 
the  probability  of  our  getting  tickets  for  August 
29th,  we  were  looked  upon  as  lunatics  for  entertain- 
ing such  a  thought. 

It  was  impossible  under  any  circumstances  to 
procure  a  place  for  the  29th.,  we  were  told  by  the 
clerk.  There  would  be  at  least  6.000  people  there5 
with  accommodations  for  2,000,  and  our  only  way 
was  to  wait  quietly  at  the  hotel  until  Sunday,  the 


344 


THE   PASSION  PLAY. 


29th  ;  then  take  Gaze's  tickets,  which  were  to  be 
had  in  the  office  for  forty-five  marks  each,  and  go 
to  see  the  play  on  Monday,  as  it  was  sure  to  be 
repeated. 

Gaze,  let  me  say,  is  an  enterprising  English 
tourist  agent,  who  has  opened  a  hotel  at  Oberam- 
mergau,  and  advertizes  to  board  and  lodge  you  for 
two  days  and  carry  you  to  and  from  the  railway 
station  at  Murnau,  where  you  leave  the  cars,  for 
forty-five  marks,  which  are  equal  to  $11.25  of  Amer- 
ican money, — a  pretty  good  price,  it  seemed  to  us,  to 
pay  for  two  days'  board  and  a  drive  of  sixteen 
miles ;  but  we  accepted  it  as  inevitable,  and  settled 
down  quietly  to  wait,  until  Providence  threw  in  our 
way  an  English  clergyman,  who  changed  our  plans 
entirely. 

"  Don't  believe  one  word  they  tell  you  at  the 
hotels,"  he  said.  "They  wish  to  keep  you  here  as 
long  as  possible.  Don't  listen  to  them.  Don't  touch 
a  Gaze  ticket.  Don't  touch  a  Cook  ticket.  Don't 
touch  anybody's  ticket,  but  just  run  your  own  canoe." 

On  second  considerations  I  am  inclined  to  think 
he  did  not  use  that  last  expression,  which  I  believe 
is  purely  American,  but  that  wras  what  he  meant, 
and  he  went  on  to  say  :  "  Write  to  the  burgomaster 
yourself  and  ask  for  the  highest  priced  tickets 


THE  PASSION  PLAY. 


345 


You'll  not  get  them,  but  you  will  get  something. 
Neither  will  he  answer  your  letter,  but  your 
name  will  be  recorded  and  remembered  when  you 
prefer  your  claim.  Go  on  Friday  by  the  early  train 
to  Murnau,  where  you  will  find  hundreds  of 
carriages  waiting  to  take  you  to  Oberammergau, 
and  once  there,  get  a  place  for  yourself  at  half  the 
sum  charged  by  Gaze  or  his  agents." 

We  followed  the  Englishman's  advice  and  wrote 
to  the  burgomaster,  and  on  Friday  took  the  train 
for  Murnau,  distant  from  Munich  sixty  miles,  and 
from  Oberammergau  sixteen.  Here  we  expected 
our  troubles  to  commence,  for  we  doubted  a  little 
our  English  friend's  story  of  the  carriages  waiting 
for  us  there  ;  but  he  was  right.  There  were  hun- 
dreds of  them, — vehicles  of  every  kind, — some  good 
enough  for  a  princess,  and  some  which  looked  as  if 
Eve  herself  might  have  driven  in  them,  had  driving 
been  one  of  her  pastimes.  I  even  noticed  a  cow  and 
a  horse  harnessed  together,  but  I  hardly  think  they 
were  there  for  the  purpose  of  getting  passengers. 
At  all  events  we  did  not  take  that  establishment, 
but  chartering  one,  which  had  a  pair  of  strong  look- 
ing horses,  we  were  soon  started  on  what  proved  to 
be  the  pleasantest  drive  we  ever  experienced,  and 
one  we  shall  never  forget. 
15* 


346 


THE  PASSION  PLAY. 


There  are  two  routes  from  Murnau  to  Oberan.- 
mergau, — one  through  the  little  village  of  Oberau 
and  up  the  famous  Mt.  Ettal,  which  is  so  steep  and 
long  that  passengers  are  obliged  to  walk  up  it,  or 
as  a  writer  has  expressed  it,  "  Rich  and  poor  have 
to  struggle  with  the  steepness  of  Mt.  Ettal  for  over 
half  an  hour,  while  a  pair  of  the  best  horses  are 
struggling  hard  to  draw  up  an  empty  carriage." 
Marvelous  stories  are  told  of  people  who  have  had 
the  apoplexy,  and  of  horses  which  have  died  toiling 
up  this  hill,  and  as  none  of  our  party  had  a  fancy  to 
try  it,  we  chose  the  other,  and  to  my  mind  the 
pleasanter  route  of  the  two.  It  is  a  little  longer 
than  the  one  through  Ettal,  but  the  road  winds  al- 
ternately up  and  over  hills  neither  too  long  or  tire- 
some, and  down  through  grassy  valleys  fresh  from 
a  recent  shower  and  sweet  with  the  perfume  of  new 
mown  hay,  and  into  which  little  brooks  came  tumb- 
ling from  the  mountains  which  shelter  Oberam- 
mergau  and  which  are  always  in  view.  Long 
before  we  reached  the  town  I  singled  out  one  tall 
peak  which  from  its  peculiar  shape  attracted  my 
curiosity  and  which  I  found  to  be  the  far-famed 
Kofel,  on  which  the  cross  is  erected  and  which 
bends  over  the  little  hamlet  as  if  in  benediction. 
For  this  peak  the  people  have  a  kind  of  super- 


THE   PASSION  PLAY. 


347 


stitious  reverence,  and  when  asked  to  repeat  their 
play  in  America,  they  replied,  "  We  would  do  so 
gladly,  but  we  must  bring  our  Kofel  with  us." 

As  we  came  down  into  the  valley  and  passed 
through  Unterammergau  our  way  lay  through  a 
long  avenue,  bordered  on  either  side  with  trees  of 
mountain  ash,  whose  clusters  of  scarlet  berries  gave 
a  bit  of  coloring  to  the  picture,  and  thus  enhanced 
its  beauty.  I  wish  I  could  convey  to  your  minds  a 
correct  idea  of  the  loveliness  of  that  valley,  and 
make  you  see  it,  as  we  saw  it  that  summer  after- 
noon, when  the  sunlight  fell  so  softly  upon  the 
steep  hillsides  where  the  grass  was  green  and 
smooth  as  velvet,  and  little  feathery  wreaths  of  mist 
were  floating  on  the  mountain  tops,  reminding  one 
of  the  patches  of  snow  seen  in  midsummer  in  the 
Alps  of  Switzerland.  Through  the  valley  the 
Ammer  runs  swiftly,  making  sundry  turns  and 
windings,  as  it  goes  singing  on  its  way  toward  the 
deep  ravines,  which  lie  beyond  Unterammergan. 
At  the  end  of  the  ash-bordered  avenue  we  crossed  a 
little  bridge  and  were  at  last  in  Oberammergau. 

It  is  not  a  pretty  town,  or  a  clean  one  either,  not- 
withstanding that  a  writer  from  whom  I  have  before 
quoted,  says,  that  "  it  is  the  cleanest  town  in  the 
Bavarian  Alps."  Not  having  seen  all  the  towns  in 


348 


THE   PASSION  PLAT. 


the  Bavarian  Alps,  I  am  not  prepared  to  dispute  the 
assertion,  but  if  Oberammergau  is  the  cleanest,  what 
must  the  others  be  ?  The  streets  are  very  narrow 
and  crooked,  and  wind  here  and  there  in  a  crazy 
kind  of  manner  very  bewildering  to  the  stranger, 
who  constantly  loses  his  way.  But  there  is  never 
any  difficulty  in  finding  it  again,  as  the  church,  with 
its  peculiar  dome,  not  unlike  a  Turkish  mosque, 
is  a  good  landmark,  as  is  also  Gaze's  hotel,  which 
stands  very  nearly  in  the  center  of  the  town.  This 
last  building  looks  as  if  it  might  have  been  an  old 
barn  before  it  was  converted  to  its  present  use.  It 
is  very  noisy  around  it,  and  dirty,  too,  in  the 
extreme.  The  streets  do  not  look  as  if  they  were 
ever  picked  up,  and  the  open  sewers  are  simply  a 
nuisance  to  the  eye  and  an  offense  to  the  nostrils, 
as  are  also  the  stables,  of  which  there  are  quite  as 
many  as  houses.  Every  dwelling  has  its  barn, 
where  the  cows  and  horses  are  kept,  and  every  barn 
has  its  manure  heap,  piled  and  boarded  with  great 
care,  and  standing  close  to  tho  street,  and  oftentimes 
under  the  very  windows  of  the  houses.  The  fleas 
are  everywhere,  and  attack  you  at  all  points,  and 
travel  over  you  until  you  feel  like  tearing  your  hair 
In  utter  desperation.  And  yet  we  have  been  told 
by  some  that  they  have  not  seen  a  flea.    Truly  their 


THE  PASSION  PLAT, 


349 


lot  was  cast  in  a  more  fortunate  locality  than 
ours. 

The  houses  of  Oberammergau  are  for  the  most 
part  small,  old-fashioned  and  peculiarly  shaped,  and 
very  few  have  flowers  or  trees  in  front.  They  stand 
mostly  in  the  street,  as  it  were,  and  are  neither 
homelike  nor  inviting  in  their  outward  appearance. 
Of  course  there  are  exceptions  to  this  rule,  and  we 
noticed  several  places  wThere  it  would  be  a  delight 
to  stay.  But  these  had  probably  been  engaged  for 
weeks,  and  when  we  drove  to  one  of  them  which  had 
a  pretty  yard  in  front,  we  were  received  with  a 
shake  of  the  head.  At  last,  however,  we  found 
rooms  in  a  sort  of  dependence  to  a  restaurant  near 
Gaze's  hotel,  and  though  the  stables  were  here,  and 
more  smells  than  poor,  abused  Cologne  ever  boasted, 
and  though  directly  under  our  window  there  was  a 
beer  garden,  where  I  knew  the  peasantry  would 
probably  spend  most  of  the  night,  we  concluded  we 
were  fortunate  to  get  even  such  quarters,  and  tried 
to  feel  contented  and  cheerful,  until  in  walking 
about  the  town  we  came  upon  a  tiny  little  cottage 
standing  in  a  patch  of  turnips,  with  the  muck  heap 
behind  the  house  instead  of  in  front  of  it.  There 
were  some  boxes  of  flowers  in  the  window,  and  the 
fare  of  the  old  lady  who  sat  on  a  bench  by  the  door 


350 


TEE   PASSION  PLAY. 


was  so  pleasant  and  attractive  that  we  accosted  her, 
and  were  told  that  "  we  could  have  the  upper  floor 
if  we  liked, — would  we  step  in  and  look  ?" 

There  were  but  four  rooms  in  the  whole  house, 
two  below,  the  kitchen  and  the  living  room, — and 
two  above,  but  these  were  scrupulously  clean,  and 
so  odd-looking  and  delightful  every  way,  that  we 
decided  at  once  to  take  them.  Now,  men  are  sup- 
posed to  be  more  courageous  than  women,  but  the 
head  of  our  party  proved  the  contrary  in  this 
instance,  and  did  not  hesitate  to  say  that  alone  and 
unprotected  he  dared  not  face  the  woman  with  the 
tumbled  hair  and  dirty  hands,  who  had  smiled  so 
blandly  when  we  took  the  rooms  Ave  were  about  to 
give  up.  He  nyjst  have  help,  he  said,  for  though 
the  Oberammergauers  have  the  reputation  of  being 
very  heavenly  in  their  dispositions,  he  suspected 
our  late  hostess  might  be  an  exception  to  the  general 
rule,  and  with  her  voluble  French  and  German  and 
English,  all  utterly  incomprehensible,  prove  more 
than  a  match  for  him.  So  we  went  in  a  body,  and 
I,  as  the  one  most  interested  in  the  change,  under- 
took to  explain  to  her  very  meekly  that  though  her 
rooms  were  excellent  in  their  wray,  and  she  herself 
everything  to  be  desired  in  a  landlady,  I  was  afraid 
the  beer  garden  under  my  window  might  disturb 


THE  PASSION  PLAT. 


351 


<me,  and  we  had  found  rooms  in  a  quieter  part  of 
the  town,  where  I  should  be  more  likely  to  sleep.  I 
might  have  spared  myself  the  sweetness  and 
apologies,  for  they  were  lost  upon  her.  With  fierce 
gestures  and  flashing  eyes  she  poured  out  a  torrent 
of  words,  which,  as  nearly  as  I  could  judge,  meant, 
that  of  all  the  mean  people  it  had  been  her  fortune 
to  meet,  we  were  the  meanest  and  the  worst  ;  that 
her  beer  garden  was  as  still  as  the  grave,  and  if  I 
could  not  sleep  over  it,  the  sooner  I  got  out  of  her 
house,  the  better  ;  then,  taking  Mr.  Holmes's  travel- 
ing bag,  she  hurled  it  into  the  hall  in  a  fashion 
which  made  Walter  turn  pale,  and  showed  that  she 
meant  business.  It  was  in  vain  that  I  tried  to  ap- 
pease her  ;  I  only  made  matters  worse,  as  she  grew 
more  furious  and  looked  as  if  fully  capable  of  taking 
me  up  bodily  and  throwing  me  from  the  window 
into  her  beer  garden,  the  cause  of  the  trouble.  So 
we  hurried  away  with  our  bags  and  bundles  and 
were  soon  in  possession  of  our  new  apartments,  to 
which  we  ascended  by  means  of  a  step-ladder, 
shutting  the  trap  door  behind  us. 

What  funny  little  rooms  they  were,  with  scarcely 
space  to  turn  round  or  stand  upright  !  We  had  but 
one  sheet,  and  our  covering  was  a  feather  bed, 
while  one  towel  served  for  the  day.    There  were 


352 


THE  PASSION  PLAY, 


little  bits  of  windows  which  opened  like  doors,  and 
our  looking-glass  was  about  a  foot  square.  There 
were  madonnas  and  saints  and  crosses  on  the  wall, 
and  presses  which  smelled  of  mint  and  musk,  and 
boxes  and  drawers,  and  curiosities  of  various  kinds, 
but  the  linen  was  white  as  snow,  and  the  bare  floor 
was  clean  as  soap  and  water  could  make  it,  as  was 
every  part  of  the  house,  and  with  a  deep  feeling  of 
thankfulness  for  our  good  luck,  we  disposed  of  our 
baggage  as  well  as  we  could,  and  went  out  to  see 
the  town. 

The  next  day,  Saturday,  was  the  day  for  the 
arrivals,  and  from  early  morning  until  night  they 
poured  steadily  in,  until  the  town  was  full  as  it  could 
hold.  Where  all  the  people  staid  is  a  mystery.  In 
our  little  cottage  the  family  slept  in  the  woodshed, 
while  on  the  night  preceding  the  play,  some  of  their 
friends  slept  on  the  floor  of  the  living  room.  A 
full  description  of  the  variety  of  accomodations 
would  fill  a  volume.  Some  of  our  friends  reported 
no  sheet  at  all  upon  their  beds  ;  others  slept  on 
pillows  of  hay,  while  others  again  boasted  two 
sheets  and  a  lounge,  with  preserves  and  cake  for 
supper.  It  was  very  amusing  to  watch  the  new 
arrivals  and  see  the  fastidious  lady  hold  high  her 
silken  skirts  and  glance  ruefully  at  her  dainty 


THE   PASSION  PLAY. 


353 


boots,  as  she  was  set  down  before  a  door  which  did 
not  look  very  inviting  ;  to  see,  too,  the  Tyrolese 
peasant  woman,  who  had  walked  into  town  with 
her  basket  of  provisions  on  her  arm,  and  with  no 
idea  where  she  was  to  sleep.  She  had  no  anxiety 
with  regard  to  her  wTooden  shoes,  nor  did  she  hold 
up  her  cotton  gown,  for  it  was  already  above  her 
ankles  and  expanded  by  a  hoop,  such  as  was  worn 
years  ago.  Her  home  was  far  up  among  the  Tyrol 
mountains,  and  she  had  come  miles  to  seethe  play  ; 
but  she  was  brisk  as  a  bee,  and  after  greeting  her 
acquaintances,  whose  costumes,  like  her  own,  were 
of  most  wonderful  fashion,  she  started  with  them 
across  the  meadow  and  up  the  steep  declivity, 
in  the  direction  of  Mt.  Kofel  to  say  her  prayers 
before  the  monument. 

This  is  a  marble  group,  representing  a  scene 
from  the  crucifixion — Christ  upon  the  cross,  with 
his  mother  and  John  standing  on  either  side.  It  is 
the  gift  of  the  present  king,  Ludwig  of  Bavaria,  to 
the  Oberammergauers,  in  commemoration  of  the 
Dlay  of  1870,  which  he  witnessed.  It  is  said  to  be 
the  work  of  Halbig,  of  Munich,  and  as  a  work  of 
art  is  very  beautiful.  As  it  is  very  large  and  stands 
high,  it  attracts  the  attention  at  once,  and  hundreds 
of  the  tourists  climb  the  hill  to  examine  it,  while 


354 


TEE   PASSION  PLAY. 


most  of  the  peasantry  go  there  to  pray  before  it, 
kneeling,  some  upon  the  ground  and  some  upon  the 
wooden  benches  placed  there  for  that  purpose. 
The  view  from  the  monument  is  very  fine,  and  of 
itself  repays  one  for  the  fatigue  of  the  assent. 
Leading  from  it  to  the  village  is  a  higher  and  dryer, 
though  longer  road  than  the  one  across  the  meadow, 
and  this  we  took  on  our  return,  following  it  until 
we  reached  the  Church  of  Oberammergau. 

It  stands  very  near  the  swiftly  running  Ammer, 
in  which  some  peasants  were  washing  their  clothes 
when  we  crossed  the  bridge  and  entered  the  church 
yard,  where  the  curious  crosses  and  headstones 
which  marked  the  graves  of  the  dead  made  us  linger 
a  while  to  examine  them  and  read  the  names  and 
dates  upon  them.  It  would  seem  that  almost  a 
third  of  the  persons  buried  there  were  Langs.  In- 
deed, the  Lang  family  is  a  very  large  one  in  Ober- 
ammergau. The  burgomaster  is  a  Lang  ;  St.  John 
is  a  Lang  ;  Mary  Magdalen  is  a  Lang  ;  Caiaphas  is 
a  Lang,  and  several  of  the  singers  are  also  Langs. 

The  church  itself  is  not  very  large  or  pretentious 
outwardly,  and  we  were  surprised  to  find  so  much 
ornamentation  inside.  There  was  too  much  gild- 
ing, it  seemed  to  us,  and  the  effect  was  rather  taw- 
dry than  otherwise.    There  were  a  few  good  pic- 


THE   PASSION  PLAY. 


355 


tures,  and  under  a  glass  case  in  an  angle  near  the 
altar  is  the  skeleton  of  a  woman,  elaborately  and 
richly  dressed,  but  looking  ghastly  and  horrible  to 
those  unaccustomed  to  such  sights.  The  church  is 
chiefly  interesting  as  being  in  one  sense  the  training 
school  for  the  Passion  Play.  With  its  ceremonies, 
its  processions,  its  music  and  its  singing,  it  prepares 
the  actors  for  the  parts  they  take,  and  keeps  the 
scenes  of  the  betrayal  and  crucifixion  constantly  in 
their  minds.  Its  pastor,  the  good  and  aged  Daisen- 
berger,  should  be  mentioned  here  as  being  closely 
identified  with  the  play  as  it  now  appears  upon  the 
stage.  He  was  the  son  of  a  peasant  and  is  now 
eighty-two  years  of  age.  His  youth  was  spent  in 
the  monastery  of  Ettal,  with  Othmar  Weiss,  who 
revised  the  old  Passion  Play  and  adapted  it  to  more 
modern  ideas.  In  1845  Daisenberger  became  the 
head  of  the  church  in  Oberamtnergau  and  made 
many  changes  in  the  play,  striking  out  whatever  he 
thought  objectionable  or  absurd,  and  materially  ele- 
vating its  tone.  He  has  also  written  several  plays 
of  a  more  secular  character,  which  are  repeated  dur- 
ing the  long  winter  months  and  constitute  the  only 
amusement  of  the  little  town.  At  these  dramatic 
representations  he  directs  and  arranges  in  person, 
and  when  he  is  gone,  his  place  cannot  well  be  filled. 


356 


THE  PASSION  PLAT. 


The  selection  of  the  actors  for  the  Passion  Play 
devolves  upon  a  committee  of  forty-five  household- 
ers, with  Daisenberger  at  their  head,  and  the  elec- 
tion takes  place  the  last  week  of  the  December  pre- 
vious to  the  play.  All  the  members  attend  divine 
worship  first,  as  they  never  do  anything  without  a 
prayer  for  guidance,  and  this  it  is  which  makes  the 
great  drama  seem  so  sacred  and  holy.  To  them  it 
is  not  to  be  lightly  entered  into,  and  the  characters 
are  chosen  from  the  best  citizens,  whose  lives  are 
known  to  be  perfectly  upright  and  without  re- 
proach. 

Precisely  at  seven  o'clock  on  the  evening  pre- 
ceding a  play,  the  actors  assemble  at  the  extreme 
end  of  the  village,  opposite  the  house  of  Tobias 
Flunger,  the  Christus  of  1850,  and  there  form  a 
procession,  which,  headed  by  the  band  playing  a 
lively  tune,  marches  through  the  principal  streets  to 
the  meadow  near  the  theatre,  where  they  disband 
and  return  to  their  several  homes.  It  has  been  said 
that  there  is  no  rest  in  Oberammergau  on  the  night 
before  a  play,  but  we  did  not  find  it  so.  It  was  very 
quiet  around  our  cottage,  and  after  ten  o'clock 
scarcely  a  sound  was  heard  till  morning,  when  at 
five  o'clock  the  booming  of  the  cannon  planted  at 
the  foot  of  Mt.  Kofel  awoke  the  slumbering  people 


THE  PASSION  PLAY. 


857 


and  told  them  that  the  business  of  the  day  had  com- 
menced. The  first  gun  was  followed  by  several 
others  in  quick  succession  until  everybody  was 
awake.  The  actors — and,  including  the  musical 
characters,  there  are  nearly  five  hundred  in  all — 
hurried  to  the  church,  where  mass  was  performed, 
as  a  preparation  for  what  was  to  follow,  while  the 
visitors  hastened  to  get  their  breakfasts;  so  as  to  be 
at  the  theatre  when  the  doors  opened. 

There  are  but  few  reserved  seats,  and  as  these 
are  taken  weeks  in  advance,  our  tickets  merely  en- 
titled us  to  seats  in  a  certain platz,  or  division,  with- 
out designating  any  particular  spot. 

The  theatre  is  plain  and  unpretending  out- 
wardly, being  built  wholly  of  boards,  with  no 
attempt  at  ornament  of  any  kind.  Inside  it  is  also 
very  simple  and  has  evidently  never  had  much 
money  expended  upon  it.  Its  auditorium  is  118 
feet  wide  by  168  feet  deep,  and  it  occupies  an  area 
of  nearly  20,000  square  feet,  and  is  capable  of  seat- 
ing an  audience  of  from  5,000  to  6,000  people. 
There  are  visible  to  the  spectator  five  distinct  places 
of  action.  First  is  the  proscenium  for  choruses  and 
processions,  and  as  this  part  of  the  stage  is  not 
under  cover,  the  singers  are  always  exposed  to  the 
weather,  and  stand,  a  part  of  the  time,  with  the  sun 


358 


THE  PASSION  PLAY. 


shining  directly  in  their  faces.  When  it  rains  they 
have  no  alternative  but  to  bear  it,  and  we  were  told 
that  they  sometimes  sang  with  umbrellas  over  their 
heads. 

The  second  place  is  the  central  stage  for  the 
tableaux  vivants  and  the  usual  dramatic  scenes  ;  the 
third  and  fourth,  which  are  reached  by  stairs,  are 
the  palace  of  Annas  and  the  palace  of  Pilate,  while 
the  fifih  represents  the  streets  of  Jerusalem. 

Thus  there  is  plenty  of  room,  and  never  any 
undue  crowding,  even  when  hundreds  are  on  the 
stage,  as  in  some  of  the  tableaux.  In  front  of,  and 
facing  the  theatre  proper,  is  the  long  area  occupied 
by  the  spectators  and  divided  into  compartments 
varying  in  price  from  eight  marks  ($2)  to  one 
mark  (25  cents).  The  eight-mark  seats  are  reserved, 
and  have  backs,  but  all  the  others  are  simply 
benches,  with  nothing  to  lean  upon,  and  those 
nearest  the  stage,  in  the  one-mark  places,  have  no 
cover  of  any  kind  ;  consequently,  when  it  rains  or 
the  sun  is  very  hot,  those  unfortunate  enough  to  be 
in  that  locality  are  neither  comfortable  nor  happy, 
especially  as  umbrellas  are  not  allowed  to  be  raised 
on  account  of  those  behind,  whose  view  would  be 
obstructed.  And  yet,  in  default  of  getting  any 
thing  better,  these  places  are  eagerly  sought  after, 


THE  PASSION  PLAY. 


359 


and  some  stand  through  the  entire  play  rathei  than 
not  see  it. 

The  broad  space  overhead  is  left  open  for 
the  sake  of  the  beautiful  landscape,  which  adds 
greatly  to  the  effect.  Casting  your  eye  over  and 
beyond  the  stage,  you  see  directly  in  front  the 
quiet  valley,  with  the  Ammer  flowing  through  it ; 
to  the  right  are  steep  hillsides  clothed  with  grass, 
and  dotted  here  and  there  with  trees  of  fir,  while  to 
the  left  and  farther  back  Mt.  Kofel  lifts  his  cross- 
crowned  head,  and  looks  down  upon  the  play.  A 
more  lovely  background  could  not  be  devised,  and 
when  the  eye  was  tired  with  the  scenes  upon  the 
stage  it  was  such  a  rest  to  let  it  wander  away  to  the 
green  fields  beyond,  even  if  it  did  detect  a  wicked 
Oberammergauer  fishing  complacently  in  the  river, 
unmindful  of  the  commandment  respecting  the 
Sabbath  day.  Perhaps  he  thought  he  was  quite  as 
well  occupied  as  we,  and  others  may  think  so,  too, 
but  these  have  never  seen  the  Passion  Play,  and  do 
not  know  how  forcible  is  the  lesson  it  teaches,  or 
how  real  it  makes  what  before  has  seemed  so  misty 
and  vague  to  those  who  cannot  easily  grasp  the 
man  Christ  and  make  him  seem  human  and  life  like. 

By  half  past  seven  the  theatre  was  full  of  eager, 
curious  people,  gathered  from  all  parts  of  the  world, 
and  from  every  station  in  life,  from  the  nobility  of 


360 


THE   PASSION  PLAY. 


aristocratic  England  down  to  the  lowly  peasant  of 
the  Tyrol.  Even  royalty  is  sometimes  represented, 
but  the  "  blue  box  "  set  apart  for  it  was  vacant  to-day, 
for  the  Duke  of  Edinburgh,  though  expected,  it  was 
rumored,  did  not  come,  and  only  Lord  Houghton 
and  Lady  Stanley  and  Lady  George  Gordon  drew 
the  eyes  of  the  curious  in  that  direction.  At  last, 
the  booming  of  the  cannon  was  heard  again,  and 
then  over  the  waiting  thousands  there  fell  a  hush 
of  expectancy,  while  the  orchestra  played  a  sweet 
and  simple  overture.  Could  we  then  have  looked 
behind  the  curtain  which  shut  the  stage  from  us.  a 
novel  and  touching  sight,  such  as  is  not  often  seen 
upon  the  boards  of  a  theatre,  would  have  met  our 
view.  Five  hundred  people  kneeling  in  silent 
prayer  and  asking  God's  blessing  upon  what  they 
were  about  to  do.  Again  the  booming  of  the 
cannon  wras  heard,  followed  quickly  by  the  third 
and  last.  It  was  eight  o'clock  ;  the  curtain  was 
drawn,  the  chorus  of  singers  appeared  upon  the 
stage,  and  the  "  Passion  Play  "  we  had  come  so  far 
to  see,  lad  commenced. 

As  most  of  our  readers  know,  the  Passion  Play 
is  performed  in  fulfillment  of  a  vow  made  by  the 
people  in  1633,  when  a  fearful  pestilence  was  rav- 
aging the  villages  in  the  valley.    For  a  long  time 


THE   PASSION  PLAY.  361 

Oberammergau  was  free  from  the  plague,  owing  to 
the  strictness  of  the  sanitary  precautions  ;  but  it 
was  brought  to  them  at  last  by  a  laborer,  who  had 
been  working  in  an  infected  district,  and  who  suc- 
ceeded in  entering  the  town  to  see  his  wife  and 
children.  In  a  day  or  two  he  was  dead,  and  so 
rapidly  did  the  disease  spread,  that  in  thirty-three 
days  eighty-four  persons  belonging  to  the  village 
died.  Then  it  was  that  the  terrified  inhabitants  met 
together  and  made  a  solemn  vow  that  if  God  would 
remove  the  dreadful  scourge  they  would  perform 
the  Passion  Play  every  ten  years.  From  that  time 
there  were  no  more  deaths  in  Oberammergau,  and 
the  play  was  acted  the  following  year,  1634.  The 
decaded  period,  however,  was  not  chosen  until  1680, 
and  since  that  time  the  play  has  been  performed 
every  ten  years,  with  more  or  less  interruptions. 
It  must,  however,  have  been  known  to  the  peasan- 
try of  Bavaria  before  1633,  as  history  speaks  of  it  at 
a  much  earlier  period.  Since  1634  it  has  undergone 
many  changes  and  modifications  and  been  stripped 
of  much  that  was  absurd  and  offensive.  Once  the 
devil  was  a  constant  actor  upon  the  stage,  and  used 
to  dance  around  Judas  during  the  temptation,  and 
when  at  last  the  betrayer  hanged  himself,  a  host  of 
demons  rushed  upon  him,  as  if  to  bear  him  away  to 
L  16       .  :  •  ;• 


362 


THE  PASSION  PLAY. 


endless  torment.  Later,  too,  the  spectators  were 
wont  to  groan  and  hiss  when  he  appeared,  and  even 
pelt  him  with  dirt  and  stones,  so  that  it  was  difficult 
to  find  a  man  with  sufficient  nerve  to  take  the  part 
of  Judas.  Now,  however,  this  is  changed,  and  the 
good  taste  of  the  Geistlicher-Rath  Daisenberger,  is 
perceptible  in  every  part  of  the  play.  In  1870  the 
play  was  broken  up  by  the  Franco-German  war. 
Forty  of  the  Ammergauers  were  called  into  the  Ba- 
varian army,  and  among  them  Joseph  Maier,  the 
Christus  of  that  year.  When  the  news  of  peace 
reached  the  valley,  fires  were  lighted  on  every 
mountain  top  from  the  Adenwald  to  the  Tyrol,  and 
the  villagers  resolved  to  give  a  repetition  of  the 
play  by  way  of  thanksgiving.  It  was  a  great  suc- 
cess, and  thousands  of  tourists  went  to  witness  it, 
all  of  whom  were  loud  in  their  praises  of  Joseph 
Maier,  whose  acting  cannot  be  excelled,  and  who, 
after  the  burgomaster,  is  looked  up  to  by  the  peas- 
antry as  a  man  second  only  in  importance  to  the 
good  Daisenberger  himself.  But  of  him  I  shall 
speak  more  particularly  by-and-bye.  I  wish  now 
to  describe  the  opening  scene,  which  heralded  the 
beginning  of  the  play. 

The  chorus  of  Schutzgeister,  or  Guardian  An- 
gels, as  they  are  called,  is  a  peculiar  feature  of 


THE   PASSION  PLAT, 


303 


the  Ammergau  stage  and  adds  greatly  to  the  inter- 
est. The  chorus  consists  of  twenty-six  singers,  and 
the  leader  is  styled  the  Prologue,  or  choragus.  Im- 
mediately after  the  third  and  last  cannon  they 
appear,  thirteen  on  a  side,  and  march  slowly  and 
solemnly  into  line.  Their  dresses  are  of  various 
colors,  and  over  them  a  white  tunic  or  colored 
mantle  is  worn,  giving  them  a  picturesque  and 
oriental  appearance.  Among  them  are  several 
young  women,  some  of  whose  faces  are  very  pretty 
and  sweet,  and  they  seem  to  feel  that  it  is  a  religious 
duty  rather  than  a  pleasure  to  stand  thus  before 
the  five  thousand  pairs  of  eyes  gazing  so  fixedly 
at  them.  Each  act  of  the  play  is  preceded  by  one 
or  two  tableaux  vivants,  as  symbols  or  prophecies  of 
scenes  in  the  life  of  Christ,  and  it  is  the  part  of  the 
choragus,  or  chief  singer,  to  describe  these  tableaux 
and  the  lesson  they  are  intended  to  teach.  This  he 
does  in  song,  his  companions  taking  up  the  chorus 
at  intervals,  and  making  the  whole  very  impressive 
and  interesting,  especially  as  some  of  the  solos  are 
finely  rendered,  in  voices  clear  and  sweet,  if  not 
highly  cultivated.  The  song  or  recitation  ended, 
the  choragus  steps  backwards  and  with  half  the 
singers  marches  to  the  left  of  the  stage,  while  the 
other  half  retire  to  the  right,  where  they  stand  mo- 


364 


THE   PASSION  PLAY, 


tionless  as  statues,  while  the  curtain  is  withdrawn 
from  the  inner  stage,  and  the  tableau  is  exposed  to 
view  for  two  or  three  minutes,  while,  watch  as  close- 
ly as  you  may,  you  cannot  detect  the  slightest  move- 
ment in  the  mass  of  humanity  so  artistically 
grouped  together. 

The  first  tableau  represented  Adam  and  Eve  be- 
ing driven  from  the  Paradise,  which  lay  in  the  back- 
ground, while,  conspicuous  in  the  center  of  the  gar- 
den, was  the  tree  of  life,  laden  with  fruit,  and  among 
its  branches,  the  tempter,  in  the  form  of  a  serpent, 
was  coiled.  The  second  tableau, which  follows  imme- 
diately after  the  close  of  the  chorus,  revealed  a  large 
cross  planted  on  a  rock,  with  crowds  of  children 
dressed  in  white  kneeling  around  it  in  a  worshiping 
attitude.  The  prayers  the  children  are  supposed  to 
be  saying,  are  sung  by  the  chorus,  who  retire  from 
the  stage,  and  the  first  act  of  the  great  drama  com- 
mences. 

Shouts  of  rejoicing  and  notes  of  glad  singing 
were  faintly  heard,  seeming  at  first  so  far  away  that 
one  could  easily  believe  they  came  from  the  green 
hilltops,  seen  over  and  beyond  the  theatre  ;  nearer 
and  nearer  they  came,  until  the  long  procession  ap 
peared  in  view,  and  the  shouts  and  singing  grew 
louder,  as  the  thronging  crowds,  carrying  palms  in 


THE  PASSION  PLAT. 


365 


their  hands,  welcomed  to  Jerusalem  their  master. 
Then  it  is  that  you  see  Joseph  Maier — the  central 
figure  of  the  play — the  one  on  whom  every  eye  is 
fixed  whenever  he  appears,  and  the  sight  of  whom 
makes  your  heart  throb  faster  as  you  remember  that 
the  scenes  you  look  upon  were  once  a  reality,  when 
Jerusalem  opened  wide  her  gates,  and  her  streets 
resounded  with  the  loud  hosannas  of  the  multitude 
doing  honor  to  the  man  riding  in  their  midst.  A 
better  Christus  than  Joseph  Maier  could  not  have 
been  selected.  Tall,  finely  formed,  with  a  sad,  pale 
face,  and  long,  flowing  hair,  he  impresses  you  at 
once,  and  your  first  thought  is  what  a  splendid  look- 
ing man,  and  how  well  fitted  for  his  part — a  convic- 
tion which  deepens  as  the  play  progresses,  and  you 
watch  him  in  all  the  varied  situations  he  has  to  fill. 
Not  a  trace  of  self-consciousness  is  ever  perceptible 
in  his  manner,  which  is  always  dignified  and  self- 
possessed,  like  one  who  feels  himself  the  master. 
His  voice  is  clear,  and  full,  and  rich,  and  you  find 
yourself  constantly  listening  for  it,  especially  to- 
ward the  last,  when  the  musical  tones  are  full  of 
anguish  or  tender  expostulation  and  disappoint- 
ment, as  he  says  to  his  sleeping  disciples  :  "  Could 
ye  not  watch  with  me  one  hour  ? " 

As  a  general   thing,  he  was  well  sustained. 


866 


THE  PASSION  PLAT. 


Judas  was  inimitable,  and  considering  the  character 
he  had  to  take,  may  almost  be  said  to  be  better  than 
Joseph  Maier  himself.  With  the  latter  every  heart 
was  in  sympathy,  while  for  Judas  there  naturally 
could  be  but  one  feeling,  and  that  of  indignation,  but 
so  powerfully  was  he  tempted  by  the  artful  Pharisees, 
and  so  hard  and  long  did  he  struggle  against  the 
temptation,  and  so  bitter  was  his  repentance  when 
the  deed  was  done,  that  you  have  only  a  deep  sym- 
pathy for  him  as  he  stands  alone  by  himself  and 
gives  vent  to  his  remorse.  I  can  see  him  now  so 
plainly  as  he  walked  the  stage,  wringing  his  hands 
in  his  despair,  and  catching  at  his  long  gray  hair  as 
he  lamented  his  folly,  and  with  bitter  cries  mourned 
for  the  dear  friend  he  had  betrayed.  You  do  not 
see  him  hang  himself,  but  you  see  him  make  a  rush 
at  the  mountain  ash,  placed  there  for  that  purpose, 
and  which  hardly  looks  as  if  it  would  sustain  him. 
But  the  curtain  falls,  in  time  to  shut  out  any  incon- 
sistencies, and  poor  Judas  "  goes  to  his  own  place," 
and  is  seen  no  more. 

Next  to  Judas  in  point  of  acting  comes  rash, 
impetuous  and  cowardly  Peter,  who,  even  if  you  did 
not  know  the  story,  would  impress  you  as  a  loving, 
true  hearted  man,  sure  to  weep  bitterly  over  the 


THE  PASSION  PLAY. 


367 


denial  called  forth  by  fear,  and  to  be  among  the 
first  to  seek  the  tomb  of  the  risen  Saviour. 

John,  the  beloved,  was  a  little  too  tame  and  quiet 
for  the  part  he  took,  while  Magdalen  was  an  utter 
failure.    One  great  feature  of  the  play  was  the  per- 
fect self-forgetfulness  of  the  actors,  but  this  did  not 
apply  to  Magdalen,  whose  self-consciousness  was  so 
apparent  and  whose  voice  was  so  unnatural  and 
peculiar  that  we  wTere  sorry  when  she  appeared  and 
glad  when  she  left  the  stage.    Her  personal  appear- 
ance was  quite   contrary    to  one's   idea    of  the 
Magdalen,  to  whom  the  old  masters  always  gave 
long,  flowing  hair  of  a  reddish  or  golden  hue,  for 
hers  was  dark  and  so  short  and  thin  that  to  wipe 
one's  feet  with  it  was  an  utter  absurdity.    She  might, 
of  course,  have  called  in  art  to  her  assistance,  and 
worn  hair  of  wondrous  length  and  thickness,  but 
such  deceptions  are  unknown  to  the  Magdalen  of 
Oberammergau,  whose  locks  were  all  her  own,  as 
were    the    few   attractions   she   possessed.  The 
Madonna,  on  the  contrary,  was  excellent,  with  a 
fair,  sweet  face,  which  would  lead  us  to  question  the 
propriety  of  selecting  so  young  a  person  for  the 
mother  of  Christ,  if  we  did  not  know  that  the 
Bavarian  peasantry  believe  in  the  perpetual  youth 
and  beauty  of  the  Virgin  Mary.    The  parting  scene 


368 


THE   PASSION  PLAT. 


between  the  mother  and  her  son  before  he  goes  up 
to  Jerusalem  is  very  touching  and  sad,  for  Mary's 
heart  is  wrung  with  dismal  forebodings  of  some 
evil  which  will  befall  her  child,  and  her  voice  is  full 
of  pathos  and  entreaty,  while  with  infinite  love  and 
tenderness  he  bends  over  her  trying  to  reassure  and 
comfort  her.  This  is  the  third  act,  and  after  the 
supper  in  Simon's  house,  where  Mary  anointed  the 
Saviour's  head,  and  Judas  was  filled  with  horror  at 
the  useless  expenditure  of  the  three  hundred 
pence. 

The  second  act,  of  which  I  omitted  to  speak, 
represented  the  high  priests  in  session,  and  consult- 
ing together  how  to  secure  the  person  of  Christ. 
Conspicuous  among  these  was  Caiaphas,  who  was 
admirably  represented  by  one  of  the  Langs,  and 
who  never  for  an  instant  forgot  the  part  he  was 
acting,  or  ceased  to  be  other  than  the  proud  and 
despotic  man  thirsting  for  the  blood  of  the  lowly 
Nazarene. 

In  the  fourth  act  we  had  the  temptation  of  Judas, 
and  in  the  fifth  the  institution  of  the  Lord's  Supper, 
when  Christ  washed  his  disciples'  feet,  and  foretold 
that  one  of  them  should  betray  him.  Next  we  saw 
the  Garden  of  Gethsemane,  over  which  the  shadows 
of  night  hung  darkly,  and  where  the  Saviour,  in  his 


THE   PASSION  PLAY. 


369 


great  agony,  prayed  for  the  cup  to  pass  from  him, 
if  possible  ;  while,  a  little  apart,  his  disciples  were 
sleeping  heavily.  In  the  distance  and  gradually 
approaching  nearer,  the  sound  of  loud,  excited 
voices  and  hurried  footsteps  was  heard,  as  the  Ro- 
man soldiers,  with  the  Pharisees  and  chief  priests, 
approached,  led  by  Judas,  who  even  then  seemed  to 
hesitate  before  giving  the  kiss  of  betrayal.  The 
text  of  the  history  is  here  followed  very  closely,  and 
ends  with  the  captivity  of  the  Saviour,  who  is  borne 
away  by  the  soldiers. 

By  this  time  it  was  nearly  twelve,  and  an  inter- 
mission of  an  hour  was  given,  in  which  the  specta- 
tors hurried  to  their  lunch  and  were  again  in  their 
places  by  the  time  the  cannon  in  the  meadows  an- 
nounced that  the  drama  was  about  to  be  resumed. 

As  in  the  morning  we  followed  the  Saviour  from 
his  entry  into  Jerusalem  up  to  his  betrayal,  so  in  the 
afternoon  we  followed  him  to  his  crucifixion  and 
death,  and  saw  him  first  before  Annas,  then  before 
Caiaphas,  and  then  before  Pilate,  who  strove  so 
hard  to  save  him,  and  who,  hoping  to  awaken  the 
sympathy  of  the  people  for  the  man  whose  life  they 
sought,  ordered  Barabbas  to  be  brought  forth  and 
placed  side  by  side  with  the  noble  captive.  Where 
they  picked  up  Barabbas  is  a  marvel.  With  long 
13* 


370 


THE   PASSION  PLAY, 


grey  hair,  which  looked  as  if  it  never  had  been 
combed,  a*nd  a  face  from  which  you  instinctively 
recoiled,  he  was  led  upon  the  stage  by  a  halter  or 
chain, — a  marked  contrast  to  the  calm,  quiet  dignity 
of  Joseph  Maier,  who,  bound  and  bleeding  from  his 
recent  scourging  and  the  crown  of  thorns,  stood 
beside  him  before  the  rabble  thirsting  for  his  blood 
and  crying  out,  "Give  us  the  Nazarene  and  let 
Barabbas  go." 

Matters  now  are  hurried  on  with  great  rapidity, 
and  as  the  end  comes  nearer  and  nearer,  the  hush 
which  all  along  has  pervaded  that  vast  concourse 
grows  more  and  more  profound,  and  the  tension  to 
which  the  peoples  nerves  are  strung  reaches  its 
climax,  when  in  the  fifteenth  act  you  see  the  long 
procession  winding  its  way  up  to  Calvary,  with  the 
white-faced,  worn-out  Saviour  tottering  under  the 
weight  of  his  heavy  cross,  while  the  brutal  soldiery 
urge  hiji  to  greater  speed,  and  the  infuriated  mob 
rend  the  air  with  their  shouts  of  hatred  and  derision. 
Then  the  tears  which  have  so  long  been  kept  back 
overflow,  and  the  heart  throbs  with  a  keen  sense  of 
love  and  pity  and  sympathy,  not  for  Joseph  Maier y 
but  for  the  man  Christ,  to  whom  this,  which  now  is 
only  acting,  was  once  a  terrible  reality,  and  who 
really  trod  the  weary  road  to  Calvary,  and  bore  not 


THE  PASSION  PLAY. 


371 


only  the  ponderous  cross  but  the  sins  of  the  whole 
world.  Every  one  was  more  or  less  affected,  and 
the  silence  of  the  audience  was  almost  painful  in  its 
intensity,  though  broken  occasionally  by  a  sup- 
pressed whisper  or  low  cry,  as  the  crowd  increased 
and  the  boisterous  shouts  grew  louder  and  the  mob 
hurried  the  Saviour  on,  until  from  sh*er  exhaustion 
he  fell  upon  the  ground,  and  the  cross  was  finally 
laid  upon  the  shoulders  of  Simon  of  Cyrene,  who 
conveniently  appeared  with  a  carpenter's  basket  on 
his  arm.  This  ascent  to  Calvary  is,  I  think,  more 
effective  and  affecting  than  the  crucifixion,  which 
is,  however,  a  most  marvelous  piece  of  acting,  and 
seems  terribly  real  as  you  gaze  at  the  central  figure 
upon  the  cross,  and  fancy  you  see  the  death  struggle 
from  the  beginning,  until  the  white,  worn  face 
drops  downward,  and  you  are  glad  with  a  great 
gladness  that  all  is  over. 

Thenceforward  there  is  more  stir  among  the 
people,  and  the  tired  ones,  who  have  sat  so  long, 
unmindful  of  fatigue,  change  their  positions  and 
breathe  more  freely  as  they  wait  for  the  scene  of 
the  resurrection.  This,  some  critics  say,  might  be 
omitted — that  the  play  is  long  enough  without  it  ; 
but  I  hardly  agree  with  them,  for  what  would  the 
crucifixion  avail  without  the  rising  from  the  dead  ? 


872 


THE   PASSION  PLAT. 


And  when  at  last  the  rock  is  rolled  away  and  Jesus 
is  alive  again  and  speaks  to  the  loving  Mary,  you 
experience  something  of  the  same  thrill  you  feel  on 
Easter  morning,  and  your  thoughts  go  back  to  the 
dear  home  church  across  the  sea,  where  you  have 
so  often  heard  the  Easter  bells  and  joined  in  the 
Easter  songs.  Loudly  and  joyfully  the  singers  take 
up  the  chorus,  "  He  is  risen,  He  is  risen, "  and  if 
your  tongue  were  tuned  to  their  language  you 
would  almost  join  them  in  their  exultant  strains. 
But  a  tableau  representing  the  ascension  is  to 
follow,  and  you  sit  quietly  till  that  is  over ;  then, 
singing  the  final  hallelujah  chorus,  the  Schutzgeis- 
ter  slowly  retire  from  the  stage  and  the  play  is 
over,  and  we  leave  the  theatre  with  a  feeling  that 
we  have  witnessed  something  which  for  all  time  to 
come,  will,  like  some  earnest,  heart-stirring  sermon, 
repeat  itself  over  and  over  again  in  our  minds,  un- 
til we  are  made  better  by  it. 


THE  END. 


